


even the sun learned to rise

by Ecipoe



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:33:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 40
Words: 38,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27597572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ecipoe/pseuds/Ecipoe
Summary: A series of one shots on Atisha Sabrae with heavy focus on her relationship with Cullen Rutherford





	1. Chapter 1

The door ricocheted off the palace walls shocking the entire Council to set their gaze to the back of the room. 

"I'm sorry Your Holiness, I tried telling her to wait." Came the immediate cry of the guard. Divine Victoria's hand raised, so elegant for a women of such little patience.

The culprit of the sound had already stalked across the room. Atisha was all red curls, fury, and glimmering gold tattoos. Her eyes settled on Arl Teagan, narrowing dangerously.

Inquisitor Lavellan brought her glove to her mouth to hide her amusement as Atisha's bare palm slammed down on the table next to her. 

"Divine Victoria, I know not who this woman is," Duke Cyril began in protest. Atisha turned her gaze upon him her teeth gleaming sharp. The Duke trailed off at the clear threat. Then, Atisha swung her head to refocus on Teagan.

"Do you know who I am?" She snarled.

Teagan barely kept from rolling his eyes.

"Should I?" He asked dryly.

Lavellan choked down a crow of amusement coughing politely into her glove. Josephine made herself busy picking at a loose seam in her gloves. Divine Victoria couldn't help the smile at the edge of her lips.

"I am Atisha Sabrae, First of the Sun of the Dales, and I declare this council to be illegitimate in standing." Atisha's voice bounced off the marble of the chamber. Teagan threw himself to his feet. 

"On what authority have you to march in here and-"

"Divine Victoria have this savage escourted-"

"Surely we can all come to an understanding-"

Voices poured over each other. Atisha never ripped her gaze from Teagan, teeth bared and eyes wild. Finally, Victoria spoke.

"Enough! Lady First, on what grounds?" Victoria's challenge was nothing and both the women knew it.

Atisha lifted her chin defiantly, magic crackling around her.

"The Inquisition's military aspects belong to the Dales. Therefore, Fereldan and Orlais have no power over these proceedings." She declared.

The room erupted.

After a few minutes of chaos and shouting, Victoria finally regained control of the noble men at her side. 

"Inquisitor Lavellan is this true?" Duke Cyril finally had the mind to ask. "Do the Dales have rights over the Inquisition's military?"

Lavellan sucked in a breath. Her palms were wet in her gloves. She reached for the water in front of her, sipped from the cup to wet her throat. Then, she spoke. 

"I am afraid that was the agreement, yes."

The Duke's eyes snapped to Josephine who was quick to elaborate.

"The Dales and the Inquisition made an alliance back when we first formed. The Inquisition would have everything it needed to defeat Corypheus, and once he was soundly dead, the Inquisition would be indebted to the Dales."

"Indebted." Teagan snapped. "Not owned."

Atisha laughed. A bitter living thing that curled its awful way down his spine. 

"Indebted indeed, Fereldan Lord, and I have come to collect. That debt is the acquisition of the Inquisition's military for the Dales."

"On who's authority?"

"My own, Lord. I am more than authority enough to speak on behalf of the Dales."

Teagan's jaw worked around words he couldn't quite find. The man looked incredulous at such a response. From an elf no doubt.

Another set of footsteps clicking across the tile sent both elven women's ears twitching. Divine Victoria's eyebrows raising caught Atisha's attention. It told her this was someone familiar. When Victoria spoke, it took everything in Atisha not to turn and run to those bootfalls.

"Commander? Is something wrong?" Victoria asked brows pulling together in concern. Cullen's scoff echoed in Atisha's ears. She could all but feel the warmth of it as took place just behind her.

He smelled of polish and metal.

Atisha tightened her hands to fists to keep from reaching for him.

Mythal'enaste she missed him.

And then he spoke and she all but forgot her duties to her people. His voice so sweet and perfect. She had dreamed of him talking. Had missed the timbre of his voice, the heft of his words.

"I had heard my wife arrived. I thought she may get lost and came to greet her. It seems I was not wrong."

Oh. The weight of his tone all but dragged Atisha's ears down. Still. Father had sent her fast to stop this madness. She would do it. Atisha swallowed hard and steeled herself. Missing her husband would have to wait.

"Divine Victoria, I beseech you, do not allow these proceedings. Should any judgement be rendered onto the Inquisition without the Dales' authority, there will be blood."

Cullen's breath caught in his chest. Her ears twitched at the sound. To have home right there and not touch it. Were she not a mage, Atisha doubts she would have the will to stand so still.

Refocused on her task, she raised her voice.

"Have we not fought enough these past years?" Atisha asked. Victoria sighed.

"I will call for a recess in light of these transgressions to determine the best course of action, Lady First."

"Ma serannas, ma'falon."

Victoria's nod was crisp and curt, dismissive. Then her gaze fell upon the Inquisitor.

"Inquisitor, I will send for you and your representatives when I have reached a decision. Until then, please enjoy the hospitality of the Winter Palace."

"With pleasure, Your Holiness."


	2. Chapter 2

"Inquisitor! I wasn't aware you had returned." Atisha says, scrambling to her feet. The picnic blanket beneath her crumpling where her eagerness to rise has ruined its once crisp lay. 

A few feet from her, Nehris Lavellan laughs. The sun catches the gold in her dark hair, her teeth sharp and cheekbones sharper and eyes so dark and lovely.

"Don't rise on my account, falon." Nehris tells her. Atisha nods, settles back down. It is still new and odd this role reversal. Had this been the Dales, Nehris would be on both knees to be before a woman of Atisha's class.

Instead, here they are. Nehris the authority and Atisha but a guest in her castle. Nehris gestures to the picnic so carefully set up in the gardens.

"Expecting company?" She asks. Atisha flushes only a little. She gestures to a little book near her. "Only myself, Inquisitor." Nehris takes in the inkpot and quill next to it. Atisha had closed that book quickly when approached. "Taken to writing have you? Whatever will I tell Varric?" Nehris teases.

The Inquisitor settles on the blanket and picks through the basket finding a suitable cheese to partake of.

"Letters." Atisha admits softly. The afternoon is gentle in Skyhold. So gentle, one might forget they are at war. Nehris hums and leans back on her hands to soak up the rays better. "To home?" Nehris inquires. Atisha sucks in a breath. "Letters I cannot send." Nehris raises a brow at her.

"They're things I should not say. Things I want to say. Letters better left unsent." Atisha explains. Then, sheepishly, "A silly habit that keeps my temper calm."

Nehris laughs.

Her friend, calm? Never.

"I fear to know what your temper is like without such habits." Nehris jokes. Atisha rolls her eyes.

"And what of you? You're early."

Nehris shrugs. 

"The reports said multiple dragons. It was just one. Quick and easy. A rift here and there. I don't wish to bore you with the details. Besides, if I tell you then you won't have reason to bother my commander."

Nehris's eyes twinkle mischievously as she says it. Atisha snorts. 

"Nehris I am begging you not to make me spend another moment with that man. I'll take the report from you."

Nehris tilts her head, all dark hair and dark eyes and bright worry. "You two aren't fighting again are you?" Atisha reaches for the bottle of wine sticking out of the basket. She rips the cork out with her teeth. The pop is a satisfaction that fills her bones. 

"That bad?" Nehris asks. Atisha puts the bottle to her lips and drinks deeply. 

When she pulls it away, her lips are curled with annoyance.

"I will never understand how you could employ such a man to run your army."

"What is it this time?"

"He is simply impossible, Nehris. Impossible to talk to and impossible to understand and impossible to reason with. I have had better luck speaking to stones and having them speak back." Atisha snarls. "How my father expects me to reason with and work with such a man I've yet to understand."

Nehris can't help the smile creeping across her face.

"And yet, you haven't thrown anything so you can't be too mad." She tells the Dalish Ambassador. Atisha groans. "That's what the book is for. I'll fill it with all the screaming I want to do. Then I will bounce it so hard off that thick skull of his that it will land in the Approach."

Atisha finds the bottle for another deep pull. Nehris grins. "What was it you said when you first met him?" Nehris asks, voice twinkling with mirth. Atisha groans and places her face in her hands. "My greatest regret is telling you that. And should I die I expect you to immortalize that regret in stone." Atisha laments. Nehris nudges her. "Come on, remind me." Atisha glares between her fingers.

"I said, he would be so beautiful if not for him opening his mouth, and you well know it, Nehris." Atisha reluctantly grumbles.

Nehris bursts into laughter.

"A truer thing has never been said about men." She giggles. Atisha glares, hands falling to the bottle balancing between her legs. "What a waste." Atisha huffs. Nehris grins wide and unabashed. "If only he didn't speak you'd be wed with three children by now." Nehris teases. Atisha rolls her eyes so hard she feels she loses vision for a moment.

"I'm afraid I like my men more than simply pretty, Inquisitor."

"Many would be surprised you like men or even women at all you stay so distant, Atisha." Nehris replies.

Atisha shrugs.

"I am, by all human standards, royalty. Should my tastes not reflect that?" Nehris shrugs at Atisha's inquiries. "I wouldn't know. I wasn't Evanura'lin like you." Nehris tells her honestly.

Atisha sighs.

Then Nehris turns and snags the bottle, sloshing the liquid within haphazardly.

"Did you love anyone back home, Atisha?" Nehris asks. Atisha watches the liquid swirl. "I am sure I would have in time. Did you?" Nehris laughs that airy laugh. That carefree laugh. The one they don't hear after Haven very often. She takes a taste of the wine and leans back. "No, but I will say that Ser Blackwall cuts a fine figure."

"You think?"

"You don't?"

Atisha smiles. "I think that he is a kind man under all that subterfuge." Nehris hums in agreement. "Do you," She falters for the words for a moment and nurses another few mouthfuls of wine. "Would you approve, First of the Sun?" 

Atisha blinks.

Nehris doesn't need her approval, does she?

"I approve of anything that eases your burden and gives you a smile, Nehris." Atisha tells her. Nehris hums. "As I do you, my friend." Nehris tells Atisha in return.

They are quiet for a long time after that. The afternoon sun is warm and they are content to split their bottle of wine and to bask. Atisha thinks about the book. She thinks about how angry that man makes her. She thinks about how she wants to grab him by the shoulders and shake sense into him. She pictures his amber eyes and the way his sneer twists that scar on his lip into something dark and angry. Atisha sees the scars on his sword hand rippling with the quill's movement. Hears his flippance and annoyance. 

Mythal'enaste.

She thinks about the way her friend looks at Blackwall.

It is nothing like how she looks at Cullen Rutherford.

Atisha is not above envy. She is not above admitting it.

For the first time in a long time, Atisha is heartsick. She isn't sure what for. No one like that waits for her at home. She has friends here. She has a place here. Atisha is valued and cared for and so envious of Nehris's carefree happiness around that man.

Gods to be do not have time for envy.

Nor do they have time to worry over one shemlen. No matter how he sticks to her every thought and makes her teeth sharp and her veins quick and hot. She does not have space for anger in her any longer. 

"You know, I don't think he knows how upset he makes you." Nehris muses, fingers tapping on the spine of the book. She had picked it up and been thumbing through it, and Atisha hadn't even noticed. Embarrassment rushes her veins hot and heavy and sharp. Atisha rips the letter journal from Nehris. Nehris hums in response.

"Inquisitor!" Atisha protests and clutches the book to her chest. "I should think Varric would greatly enjoy that. You should hide it well." Nehris tells her. Atisha draws her lip up in a snarl. Nehris shrugs. "All joking aside, you should tell him."

"Yes because barging into his office to tell him how insufferable he is would do wonders for making things less infuriating."

"Better than to leave it festering and untreated."

"What part of 'I want to throw this at him' did you not understand?"

"Lady First, you are a valuable asset to the Inquisition and your military resources are beyond needed. If you and the Commander cannot reasonably get along to see that those resources are used, then what is the point? Go talk to him."

"Is that an order, Inquisitor?"

"As Inquisitor, and your friend, it is a strong suggestion."


	3. Chapter 3

Atisha had done it. She had walked through the doors to the Commander's office with her letter journal in hand. She had even gotten his attention.

And now she was stuck.

Gold to amber, their eyes locked in a silent battle.

"Is there a reason for this visit, Lady First?"

He asks right as she tells him,

"You are an impossible man."

Cullen goes quiet. He purses his lips and straightens in his chair.

"Is that what you came here to say?" Cullen asks very calmly. Gods he makes her hands shake. How can he be so collected? She just insulted him and here he is sitting pretty like a prince in response.

"No."

Cullen nods. "Well get it all out then." 

And he is inviting her anger to this room. That just makes the flames fan hotter.

"I do not understand you. You are impossible and stubborn and insufferable. Someone can yell fire and instead of putting it out you look for the bellows." Atisha tells him. Cullen nods. "And yet somehow you are still reasonable and kind and polite to those around you. I do not understand you, Commander, and you make me very angry."

"Are you finished?"

"No." 

"Then please take a seat and continue."

He gestures to the chair before his desk. Atisha takes his offer and settles herself down.

"Commander Rutherford, I am never heard in your presence. My military expertise is shelved and my troops are ripped from my hands and placed on your chess board and you do not care to listen to me."

"A fair frustration." He confirms. Atisha nods. She sucks in a breath.

"All of this is upsetting, but it isn't what haunts me. It's the way you look at me."

"And how's that, Lady First?"

"You don't look at me. You look through me. At first I thought it must be my ears, but no, you don't look at the Inquisitor that way." Atisha rises, book left on the edge of his desk. "Then I thought, maybe I am foreign. But no, you've respect for Cassandra. Then I realized."

Atisha feels her heart cutting through her. Why did she come here why is she still talking she needs to stop talking. 

"I am an unharrowed mage."

Cullen looks up at her, hands folded on the desk.

"Indeed you are."

Beautiful until he opens his mouth to be sure.

"May I?" Cullen asks, jaw tight and eyes narrowed. Atisha nods. "I do not push military expectations upon you because, yes, you are an unharrowed mage and I've seen what stress does to such mages. I've no desire, Lady First, to draw a blade on a guest. You've every right to be angry with me, but try to understand my position. I cannot be responsible for a foreign princess becoming an abomination for any reason."

"You may as well just tell me to my face you believe me incompetent." 

This man makes her veins so hot with so much rage.

"I mean no insult. My concern is with your safety."

"In my country you do not get to be called First and be magically incompetent, Commander."

Cullen blinks slowly at her and sucks in a sigh. "I apologize. I am trying to be a different man. Old habits die hard though. Can we start over?"

Atisha draws her lips back in a snarl.

"No, we most certainly cannot, Commander. I don't know how your people handle problems, but my people earn our friendships."

With a glare and a snarl Atisha stalked out of the tower office, letter journal forgotten.


	4. Chapter 4

Atisha enters her office weeks later to find a carving, a crude halla, settled on her desk upon a letter.

'Lady First, 

Leliana says Halla are an olive branch so to speak.

You left your book.

-Cullen'

Atisha has half a mind to toss the carving into a fireplace. But it really is the most miserable thing she's ever seen. The Commander cannot work wood to save himself. The thing is supposed to be a halla but looks more like a dog with a sword in its head.

She imagines the poor man suffering over carving this piss poor excuse of a halla and it brings a bit of amusement to her. Would it drive him to cursing? Properly cursing not that Andrastian garbage. She hoped so.

She imagined him miserable over it and grinned.

An acceptable apology indeed.

Atisha places the halla on her nightstand right next to her night candle. She tucks the letter away in the stand drawer. What is appropriate for humans? She had seen them give each other flowers before.

The air of Skyhold is crisp in her lungs as she walks to the gardens. Atisha and Nehris have been cultivating some lovely roses. Humans like roses, right? Josephine had said she loved receiving roses once. What color was it for friendship? Orange? 

No red.

Atisha found the red ones easily enough. The ground was damp beneath her knees, muddying her pant legs. Her fingers and dagger make short work of dethorning the roses. A hearty bundle of red roses in hand accompanied with some crystal grace all tied off with one of her hair cords, she began the march to the Commander's office.

Swallowing her pride has never been one of Atisha's talents. But she won't let that man out do her on anything.

And so Atisha barges into the Commander's office with a bouqet of roses and immediately regrets it.

Nehris is leaning over reports with Cullen. The suddenness of the door opening causing the Inquisitor to jump, which in turn caused Cullen to jump. Both of them slamming their heads together. Nehris hisses, hand coming up to cradle the side of her head immediately.

"Atisha," Nehris snarls still clasping her smarting skull. "Knocking is appreciated my friend." 

Cullen grunts in agreement.

Then they process.

"Are those roses?" Nehris asks deadpan. Cullen's face is frozen in horror.

"Yes." Atisha says very matter of factly. She marches across the room and shoves them toward Cullen. He nearly tips over in his chair trying to avoid the flowers.

Atisha frowns.

"I, Lady First, this is hardly, uh, proper, for a woman of your standing." Cullen stammers. Atisha's frown deepens. "You got me the halla." She tells him flatly.

"As an apology! Maker, I did not mean for you to misunderstand. Leliana said, oh why did I listen to her?"

Atisha blinks. She takes in the shock and horror on Cullen's face and the amusement on Nehris's.

"Red isn't friendship is it?" She asks very quietly turning to look at Nehris. The Inquisitor is trying very hard not to laugh. "No, ma'falon, it is very much not." Nehris giggles. Atisha flushes. She made a mistake. A very embarrassing mistake.

"Oh no." Atisha breathes.

"Oh yes." Nehris laughs.

"Can one of you two explain what's happening for the human in the room." Cullen interrupts. Nehris grins.

"She meant to bring yellow roses. You made her a halla. She wished to return the sentiment." Nehris tells him. The furrow leaves Cullen's brow. "Oh." He breathes.

Atisha can't seem to take her gaze from her boots.

"I'll take my leave then. My apologizes for interrupting." She tells them, cheeks burning. 

Red isn't friendship.

What's red again?

"I'll keep the flowers." Cullen says, snapping her out of staring at the floor.

"What?"

"They might be the wrong color, but I appreciate the sentiment. I'll keep them."

Nehris raises an eyebrow as Cullen walks over to Atisha and takes the bouquet from her trembling hands. "They are very lovely flowers. Thank you." 

"Ma nuvenin, Commander."


	5. Chapter 5

Atisha is learning to not hate the Commander. Which she supposes is a good thing seeing as she has to work with him. She is learning to tolerate him. 

He does not make it easy.

Cullen pushes her constantly. Unintentionally belittles her beliefs, forgets his place, speaks ill of things her kind hold sacred.

Apologizes every time he misspeaks.

He does not make anything easy.

The Commander should be easy to hate. And she thinks he is for a time. Even with all their apologies. Then she sees it.

The Commander. Hair golden in the sun, hand clenched tight on the shoulder of a man he has shoved to the battlement wall. A soldier. Then she hears him, a low snarl that makes her stomach drop with the absolute animosity in his tone.

"Mages are our allies and you will respect them, or you will be removed from the Inquisition, Larson."

Atisha was not meant to hear this. She was not meant to see the force behind the shove. Wasn't to see the fear in the young man's eyes.

This is the man who led the Kirkwall Templars then. This is the beast within the lion. Atisha was not supppsed to see it, but she cannot forget it.

She dreams of it.

Not nightmares. Not truly. Because what fear has she of a man who would hunt his own for the safety of others? She dreams of the twist of his scar, the snarl, the vibrant anger that the Commander houses under all that calm and snark.

He is just like her under it all and it pleases her greatly.

The Commander is a man after all not a saint.

He does not make it easy for her to hate him. She confides in Nehris her conflicting feelings. Nehris does not have answers.

Atisha has to figure out what to do with her own confusion alone.

She has to deal with how badly she wants to see that beast on her own.

"Recruit Larson, is he still with us?" Atisha asks Cullen one day as she tosses him a towel. He mops the sweat from his brow, eyes squinting to keep the salt and sun out of them. The man has been sharpening his sword arm all afternoon and did not expect her company let alone the question.

"Afraid not. His views did not coincide with the Inquisition's so he was asked to leave. Why? Were you particularly close?"

There is a bitterness behind his words. A tang of something angry buried under all his manners. Atisha is simply giddy at the sound.

"And if we were?" She pushes just a little.

Cullen pauses from where he was soaking sweat from his hair, now curled and wild and out of place. A proper mane, Atisha thinks.

"I'm afraid you've poor taste in company then, Lady First."

"Poorer than you?"

Cullen blinks.

"Are you," He begins, licking his chapped lips with thought. "Are you trying to get a rise out of me?"

Too smart. He's caught on to her too quickly. Cullen laughs a dry laugh. "Maker, you are, aren't you?" Cullen's chuckle doesn't fade as he finds his way to the water barrel. Atisha follows curious. He doesn't seem angry. Just amused.

"I care not about what company you keep in your free time, Lady First. So long as that company does not make more work for me." He tells her as he scoops out a cup of water and drains it eagerly.

Atisha watches the bob of his throat as he swallows and does not understand why her throat tightens. Cullen mops the excess water from his mouth with the back of his hand and tilts the cup to her with a raised eyebrow. Atisha does not know why she takes it, does not know why she drinks, but Cullen seems pleased.

"So, why are you trying to rile me up, exactly?" Cullen asks her. Atisha blinks and shrugs. "Wanted to see if it could happen." 

Cullen takes the cup back from her and refills it.

"To see if what would happen?" He asks. He then tilts the cup to his mouth and drinks deeply.

"I wanted to know if you're capable of anger." Atisha tells him matter of factly. Cullen nearly chokes on the water, clearing his throat furiously. "If I'm capable?" He repeats. She nods.

Cullen looks dumbfounded.

"Do you truly think me incapable of anger?" He finally asks. Atisha shrugs. "Don't know. Never seen it. You're always so level." Cullen soaks that in, blinks at her wide eyed, then considers.

"Yes, Lady First, I am quite capable of feeling anger. Just as any man is I suppose. I just have no interest in being angry often. I spent many years angry. That is not a man I want to be. And I certainly do not desire to lash out at guests, or friends." Cullen tells her.

"Would like to see it one day is all." 

Cullen's brows draw together. 

"You want to see me angry?" He asks very slowly like she's daft. Because surely she is. "I'm curious. They call you a Lion. I want to see why." Atisha replies. Then quietly, almost ashamed. "I shouldn't have tried to upset you to see it."

Cullen rolls his eyes, settles the towel on the back of his neck. "You are so strange, Lady First. They call me Lion because of these," He pulls one of his lovely golden curls. "Not because of my temperament." Atisha nods, eyes fixated on the bounce of the curl. "Now, will you stop prodding at me and following me about the keep?" Atisha nods sheepishly. Cullen rolls his eyes. "Good."


	6. Chapter 6

Cassandra stops her.

Atisha does not know if she will ever forgive the Seeker.

Nehris was gone. She had left for the enemy generals with Cullen and Leliana. Nehris was gone to the enemy base and Atisha was here, safe and warm.

Her dearest friend here had run off to the enemy and hadn't even told her.

Atisha was going to skin Nehris alive when she returned.

No, she was going to skin her alive when she caught her.

"Step aside, Seeker." Atisha snarls, her Hart pawing at the Skyhold bridge anxiously. Cassandra is standing in her way, stepping in front of her mount with ease as Atisha tries to maneuver around her.

"I cannot do that, Lady First." Cassandra replies defiantly, hand resting easy on the pommel of her blade.

Atisha tightens her grip on the reins. 

"Move, Cassandra." Atisha growls, threat clear.

Cassandra closes her fist around her blade.

"Turn back, Atisha." Cassandra returns Atisha's venom in full. Seeker Pentaghast can play this game of violence just as well if not better and they both know it. Cassandra's lip curls. Her shoulders tense as she squares herself.

Atisha's Hart, Ghilas, huffs and shifts his great weight in annoyance at this halting of his run. Atisha pulls back on his reins as he paws at the ground and tosses his head back and forth, snorting and eyeballing Cassandra. 

"Please don't stop me, she is my friend." Atisha softens only a little. Cassandra sighs, fist loosening from her blade. "She is mine as well." Cassandra tells her. Ghilas snorts, stepping towards the Seeker impatiently. The beast's breath is hot and wet on the Seeker's cheeks.

"I promised them you'd remain here, Atisha, even if I have to take you off that deer myself." Cassandra declares, making eye contact with the great beast. The shudder that runs through Ghilas shakes Atisha's bones. Cassandra is all dragon hunter in this moment. All beast killer. And her steed knows it instinctually. Knows death when it looks him in the eyes.

Nehris made Cassandra swear. A Seeker does not break her word.

"We can throttle them an inch from death together when they return. Now, turn around."

And that sounds like a bargain.

"When you say an inch from death," Atisha begins as she turns Ghilas back towards the Skyhold stables. "I mean as far as the healers let us." Cassandra agrees.

Now there's a thought.

An excuse to box Nehris's ears? Any day. Then maybe the Inquisitor wouldn't be so flippant with her life. Someone has to put the fear of death in that woman.

When they return, Atisha does not make good on that promise. Nehris returns battered and bloodied with Blackwall and Leliana trailing after her. Cullen marches at her side, his arm dangling in a shoddy makeshift sling. They are battered and bruised and bloody. Atisha's chest twists miserably. She is across the courtyard in two breaths wreathed in the ice of the Fade.

Her feet ache to take her to her best friend, her other heartbeat, Nehris. But her Healer's instinct instead takes her to Cullen, with his blackened eye. Cullen with his cut cheek and dangling arm and sharp breathing. Cullen, who is suspiciously and conceringly unshaven, and favoring one leg. His eyes narrow and widen with each uneven footfall.

"What happened?" Atisha snaps. Frost clings to her breath and fogs from her lips as her magic roils in her chest.

Is that her voice? When did Atisha start to sound like mother? When did she start to be angry again?

Cullen pushes Atisha's hand away when she reaches for him.

Her magic crackles audibly in response. Electricity gleams off the widening of his eyes. 

"What. Happened." Atisha repeats darkly.

"He wasn't there. You'll have a report shortly." Cullen snaps back. Atisha turns her gaze to Nehris who is already being attended by Solas. Blackwall finds himself fretted over by Dorian. It seems Cullen is Atisha's charge now.

"Fine. Let's get these tended to. Come on." Atisha gestures for Cullen to follow. He won't let her help him. Not in front of his men. She knows this and her magic snaps loudly in annoyance at the thought.

Cullen trails after her. Each uneven shuffle of his boot makes her ears twitch painfully. "You are impossible, Commander. You run off without a word and come back barely in one piece." Atisha mutters to him as he follows her to the healer huts. Cullen huffs in response. 

The canvas of the tent is scratchy under her fingers. Atisha holds the flap open and gestures grandly for Cullen to enter. Stooping over to enter causes his breath to catch, but he bites back any sound that might have come. Atisha follows him into the dim space. Room for a cot and a stand with a few potions, that's about all these huts house.

Don't need much space for one man healing huts. The canvas is just for a semblance of privacy. Cullen settles gladly on the cot. The weight off his aching bones is welcome after the long walk across the bridge and courtyard.

"It's not that bad." He mutters. Atisha clicks her tongue in annoyance. "Of course not." She rolls her eyes then tilts her head expectantly. Cullen blinks at her. "Well, off with it then." Atisha tells him gesturing widely to his armor. 

She's never seen him turn that color before.

Maybe he was wounded worse than she thought?

"Excuse me?" Cullen stammers. "Your armor and shirt. Take them off. You've been examined for wounds before, surely." Atisha tells him. Her hand comes to his forehead as she says it. Perhaps he had an infection. Fever could cause such confusion.

A bit clammy, a bit warm, nothing that has her concerned yet. Atisha snaps her fingers behind each ear, watches him flinch. He has hearing still.

"I'll wait for Dorian." He tells her. "Or Solas." 

She brings a small ember to her fingers for light. 

"Close your eyes for me."

Cullen obeys instinctually. Atisha checks his pupils. Both react fine. Clear eyes. He isn't suffering a head injury.

"You can open your eyes now." Mythal have mercy, he does have the loveliest eyes. What a waste. Cullen nods. "Thank you. Send in Dorian please." Atisha scoffs. "Dorian is a necromancer and Solas specializes in energy work. I'm the only healer and you're the most injured. Just take off your armor, Cullen." Atisha tells him, less amused at the second asking. Cullen does not meet her eyes.

"I can't." He says very softly. Atisha shoots him a look to say 'explain'. Cullen fidgets with his fingers. "You're a lady, it isn't proper." He mutters. All at once he looks very much a scolded teenager. A rare moment of weakness for the commander. Atisha can't help the laugh that bubbles from between her lips.

"Commander, I can promise you I am not looking for anything more than injury. Nor do you have to worry about such things. We Elvhen do have a love for skin, and among my people it is common to not wear as much. Now, please, my innocence isn't on the line. Let me treat you."

"Right. Elves. Different." He says very distantly, fingers fumbling with the straps of his dented chestpiece. Atisha's fingers ghost the dent. Force like that would throw a man. She dismisses the mental image fast. Not fast enough. "Beheamoth. I've spent so long pitying the red templars I forgot they become something far from men." Cullen mutters as he finally looses the chestpiece. 

Atisha takes the metal from him. It is heavy this armor he wears every day. Not as heavy as other things, she suspects. "Are you in pain still?" Atisha asks as she settles the metal on the ground by the cot. Cullen grimaced as he pulls the linen of his shirt over his head. 

"Not much worse than usual, I suppose." He grunts. 

Than usual?

Atisha doesn't focus on that thought because the man's ribs are black and his sling arm is still dangling. Her hands are on his side wreathed in blue immediately.

"Have you done this before, Commander?"

"Yes."

"Then you are prepared?"

"I am."

And Atisha lets her magic dig roots in his flesh. The branches of her abilities root through him, pulling healthy bone together and sealing it. Cullen grits his teeth.

Magic is a gift, but it is not always gentle.

Atisha is not being too gentle. After all, he earned this.

"You're a fool." Atisha hisses under breath as she feels the full extent of damage. "A damn fool." She repeats, knitting muscle and bone and flesh back together. Cullen barks out a laugh between the nauseaous waves of pain. "I'll take that as a compliment." He wheezes. Atisha wraps her magic around his damaged broke rib and pulls it in place as a response.

The air leaves Cullen's lungs all at once. The whimper that follows is undignified.

Once she is done putting his side right, Atisha finds his arm. Cullen raises his good hand slowly. He scrubs it over his eyes blinking furiously. He's the one in pain, but he could almost swear Atisha has tears on her cheeks.

Her fingers are electric as they pull his arm from the sling and in one swift painful movement she corrects the position.

"Fuck." Cullen hisses almost inaudible. Atisha's ears twitch. She must have misheard. He doesn't speak so. Her magic wraps around the bone, fusing it back the way it was once. 

Once it is done she steps back, ghosts the back of her fingers over the cut on his cheek and lessens the blackness of his eye.

Cullen reaches for his shirt. Atisha shoves it towards him.

"Never make me do this again, Commander." She tells him, and leaves him to dress. 

Atisha needs to see Nehris.

She needs to breathe air that isn't corrupted by this man's pain.

She needs her friend.


	7. Chapter 7

"You are the Inquisitor! Surely, you can do enforce it with little effort." Atisha pleads. Nehris stares at her like she's daft from that massive Orlesian bed of hers.

"I could. Were it not my enforcer you wish me to enforce." Nehris replies. "What brought this on?" 

Atisha feels her cheeks burn with shame.

"When you returned from the Temple of Dumat I treated his wounds. That man has no survival instinct." 

"No good commander is unwilling to fight." Nehris interrupts. Atisha glares. 

Nehris smooths the blankets under her calloused fingers. "Ma'falon, tell me why." Atisha's chest twists at how gentle her friend's demand is. "I can't." Atisha tells Nehris. The Inquisitor nods slowly. "Can't or won't?" 

Atisha hisses, throwing her hands up. "Time with all the hahren has made you as impossible as they are!"

Nehris smiles a sad little smile. 

"It is unlike you to wear your fear so, Atisha."

Nehris's words cut to the core. Atisha halts in her tracks, eyes wide. "Peace is in pieces. That is what Cole told me before you knocked. What has you shaken so that you ask me to shackle my own commander?" 

Tears well in Atisha's eyes, but she swallows hard and wills them away.

"I can barely stand the man. He is so composed and polite and infuriating."

"I know lethallin."

"I think his history abhorrant. The world he helped create frightens me. The man he has been, is capable of being, haunts me."

"He is not that man any longer."

"I know. I see that every day. I see that every time I open my eyes and witness him, Nehris. But I cannot close my eyes and not see the break of his ribs, lethallin. I cannot close my eyes and not hear the bones cracking." 

Nehris watches her friend crack. Magic gleaming like a heat haze, glimmering and writhing around Atisha. A molten halo. 

"I know not why but it won't leave me. I've repaired worse. I've put together men more broken! I do not hear their bones with every greeting. Nehris, you must do this for me, sathan ma'falon."

Nehris considers Atisha a moment. She worries her lip between her teeth weighing the request. Finally, she comes to a decision.

"I cannot order my commander not to fight. But I can order him to speak with you of these concerns. Maybe you can put the fear of death into him." Nehris teases at the end, eyes sparkling. "Would that be enough?" Nehris asks. Atisha collapses in the nearest chair. 

"I don't know." She tells the Inquisitor honestly.

"I understand. How could you ask the river to not flow? The warrior to not fight? The heart to not beat?" 

Atisha snaps her head up, eyes locking with Nehris's. 

"You speak of Blackwall?" Atisha asks. Nehris shakes her head in the negative. "Oh." Atisha breathes. "Father is going to kill me." Nehris's laugh bounces off the walls of her chambers. "Dalish tradition does say you get to choose the first." Nehris points out. Atisha glares, tosses the nearest crumpled letter she finds at Nehris's head. It bounces off in a satisfying arc. 

Atisha draws a breath after the paper has stilled.

"This would be so much easier if you just told him to stay put."

"Where's the fun in easy?"

Atisha glares.

"Besides, watching you fumble and irritate my commander is the highlight of my day, lethallin."


	8. Chapter 8

Atisha finds Cullen nose deep in requisition reports in the storeroom. The air is musty and thick and tickles her nose threatening to bring on a sneezing fit. She hasn't spoken to Cullen since the return from the Temple two weeks ago.

Two weeks.

It seemed longer and like no time at all.

"Am I needed in the war room?" Cullen asks, sensing the presence by him but unable to rip his eyes from the numbers. If he keeps reading in the dark like this the man will end up needing a glass to read, she thinks.

"No, sorry." Atisha replies.

Cullen flicks his gaze over to her momentarily.

"Lady First, have your men returned already? Isn't it two days early?" She sees him mentally calculating as he speaks. 

Atisha feels her palms sweat.

"No, it's not Inquisition business. Well, not exactly."

That reply does catch his attention. Cullen sets the report down on the nearest crate and turns to face her fully. 

"Have I done something to offend you again?" Cullen asks, brows drawn together. He seems to be focused on retracing every word to her in the past few weeks. He will fail. They have not spoken. 

Atisha shakes her head.

The stiffness falls from his shoulders.

It quickly returns when Atisha worries her lip and picks at her nails.

"The Temple of Dumat." The words gush from her mouth faster than Atisha can swallow them. "You came back injured." 

Cullen's lips draw up in the corners in amusement.

"Yes, I recall. I was there after all." His snark quickens her veins with annoyance. 

"Very funny. I mean to say, I didn't like it. Seeing you hurt I mean. I don't want to see it again."

"It's a war, people get hurt."

"I'm not talking about people. I'm talking about you." 

Cullen blinks.

"I'm not a person now?" 

Atisha pinches the bridge of her nose. Frustrating impossible stupid man.

"Of course you're a person." Atisha snaps back frustration mounting. 

"You're mad at me for having gotten hurt, am I understanding?"

Atisha nods.

"It's been two weeks, Atisha." Cullen tells her stoically. "I'm fine." 

"But you won't stay that way!" Atisha finally raises her voice. Cullen starts. "You won't stay that way because the next time someone even says Samson you will go running no matter the threat! And then what? I wait to put you back together again?"

"That is the gist of war." He replies evenly, eyes narrowed and hands tightened to fists. She could never understand why he has to hunt that man. He doesn't expect her to.

"Creators, why did I let her talk me into this." Atisha hisses to herself mostly, glowering at him. Cullen sighs. He's work to do. He hasn't time for this argument. Then, she raises her eyes to meet his. "I cannot watch you do that again, Vheraan." 

"Atisha,"

He watches her shake, eyes sharp and determined. Cullen reaches forward to steady her. He doesn't like the sound of that word. It is familiar and lurks the edge of his knowledge. Elves calling each other a soft word with that sound. 

Her voice rips him from that thought.

"In my country we do not ask those who love us to repair us. I did not understand why. Surely, you would want someone who loves you to heal you." Atisha's hands tremble. Her voice shudders. Cullen watches her magic coil protectively around her. He wishes he were the fool she thinks he is. Wishes she would stop talking and let him read his reports.

"I understand now, Vheraan."

There is a defeat to her voice that leaves him reaching out. What for he isn't sure. So he settles for squeezing her shoulder in a way that is hopefully comforting.

"Lady First,"

Let him go back to work, he silently pleas.

"I hear them you know? Your bones. I don't hear anyone else's. Just yours. Hundreds of wounds, hundreds of faces, and yours is the one I don't unsee."

"You don't even like me." He tries to make light. Anything to draw her off this topic. Cullen's stomach twists. Atisha laughs. It is not comforting. She supposes she doesn't like him. She supposes it's a little past that if the twist of her heartbeat, the echo of his ribs, is anything to judge by. So, instead she grabs his fingers, so long and scarred, and squeezes.

"Promise me you won't jump foolishly to your death for that man." Atisha tells him.

"I won't let him get away with what he's done."

"I'm not asking that."

"Fine, I won't die for Samson. Are we done here?"


	9. Chapter 9

"Solas, a favor?"

Solas turns his attention from the mural he is preparing to paint to the Commander.

"How can I be of service, Commander?"

Cullen's hand finds the back of his neck working the stiffness uncomfortably. "I need a translation." He tells Solas. Solas nods, climbs down the scaffolding with ease. He extends his hand. "The document, please." 

Cullen coughs.

"No document. Just one word." 

Solas arches a brow.

"Very well," He clasps his hands behind his back. "The word?"

Cullen clears his throat. "That's the problem. I'm not entiely sure. A hard V sound. 'Vee' something. Ended with an 'N'."

Both of Solas's brows go up. "And an elf called you by this word?" He inquires. Cullen nods. Solas frowns. "Context?" Cullen's brows drop together. "Ah, if my studies are correct, a title? It seemed to be a name or to replace one." Solas's frown deepens. "I see."

Solas takes a breath, steadies himself.

"There are many words with such a sound. The most immediate that comes to mind being 'vhenan'."

Cullen's nose screws up.

"Yes, no? Maybe your accent is different." Cullen says. Solas hums. "What does it mean, 'vhenan'?" Cullen does his best to shape the word, and it is a valliant attempt Solas will admit.

"Vhenan? I suppose the easiest translation for you would be something akin to 'my heart'. It means, literally, 'place of my core'. And now I find myself curious who calls our Commander so."

Cullen is an uncomfortable shade of red. Solas almost feels pity for the man. "Lady Sabrae." Cullen mutters. Solas feels his knees nearly buckle. He reaches for the ladder to steady himself.

His niece? A shemlen? His stomach flips.

"Apologies, Commander, I am afraid I find myself shocked. Evanura'lin saying such a thing. I cannot fathom it." Solas tells him when Cullen lunges forward to steady him.

"It might have been another word." Cullen offers.

"Perhaps." Solas agrees. "Can you tell me anything else that led to use of the word?"

Cullen nods.

"She was angry I went to the Temple of Dumat. Something about my injuries and how she could hear my bones cracking back into place still. It wasn't all clear."

Solas swallows.

A healer should not be asked to heal those she loves.

"And she called you vhenan during this?"

"Yes."

Elgar'nan was going to kill his daughter.

"I believe this translation to be reasonable then, knowing that." Solas tells him. Cullen sighs. "I was afraid of that." He tells the elf. Solas blinks. "Oh?" Cullen rips his gauntlet through his hair jostling carefully smoothed curls out of place. 

"Thank you, Solas. It was helpful." Cullen tells him. Sensing this conversation is over, Solas gives Cullen a wide smile. "Happy to be of assistance, Commander. Please, do not hesitate if you need anything else."


	10. Chapter 10

When Atisha arrives at Haven she is appalled. 

She has never left her country. And now here she is, in the heart of one where elves are called knife-ear and expected to be servants. 

Within a few minutes she is accused of theft by a pilgrim. Theft of her own clothing and jewelry. It is swiftly sorted out by the Inquisition's Lady Ambassador and Seeker. But the insult remains.

May her blood give her strength to not burn this place to the ground and call it good.

Atisha arrives in Haven and does not want to be here.

She understands her Father must see some value in these creatures for her to be asked to represent the Dales. Logically, she knows that. But Father hasn't been among the shemlen in many years.

Besides, if it is her uncle that has caused all this then that family should be present to help clean it up.

Atisha is grateful for that if nothing else. That her uncle is here. That she isn't alone among this sea of unfamiliar faces. Even if uncle Solas has not spent many of his years home among the people, he is still at least one of the people.

Atisha arrives in Haven and she is disappointed in the people, and surprisingly, the weather.

It's freezing here.

Were she not a mage, she suspects her toes would be solid chunks of ice. Her cloak is made for the chill of the forest, not the mountains, and the cold, dry air sucks the heat from her very bones. How her uncle walks about barefoot in this weather she cannot understand. Mage or not it's bitter. 

Haven is cold and unforgiving and she wants to go home. And still among all of this, she finds the unexpected. The Herald of Andraste. Uncle Dirthamen was right. Of course he was, it wasn't in doubt. The woman is indeed an elf. A low born Dalish elf bearing dedication to Mythal on her cheeks and forehead. 

Atisha finds another of her people and takes ease in that.

For a low born, Nehris speaks fairly well. Her vocabulary is growing each day with careful guidance from Josephine and Leliana. The woman does not carry magic, but wields what uncle gave her with surprising grace.

Nehris is a needle and thread to this torn veil.

Atisha is grateful for the little things. This woman has skill. That makes Atisha's duties here easier. She won't have to guide Nehris into fixing the world. Nehris already wants to. Upon seeing that skill, Atisha writes to home requesting a few troops and basic supplies. She can trust this Herald. She can help Haven.

Creators know these people are in desperate need.

Father sends what she requests immediately.

Within a month, Atisha goes from Dalish Cultural Expert, a flowery title given to appease her countrymen, to Elvhen Expert, Dalish Ambassador, and Military Advisor on behalf of the Dales. Funny what a few men here and there can do to raise the shemlen's opinions of her. 

Her responsibilites become to help manage resources and organize her countrymen among the Inquisition's raw, untrained pilgrim recruits. Atisha is included in occasional meetings with the inner circle regarding the mage templar war, a war she does not understand, and the Dalish view on things. Nehris could have provided that view well enough, they both know.

Atisha's work quickly leads to her meeting the Commander of the Inquisition, Cullen Rutherford. Atisha has been informed as to his qualifications. Former Knight-Commander of Kirkwall, Templar for a decade and a half or so, warrior. These things do not mean much to her.

The Commander is shockingly pretty for a warrior. A few noticable scars here and there, but even those seem decorative in the long run. She meets him in the training field, sent to discuss placements of small watch towers on Nehris's behalf.

This poor man is attempting to teach a farmer to hold the hilt of a blade like he means it.

Atisha is content to watch. Cullen Rutherford is golden. The sun seems to gleam off of him, igniting him into something of legend. Hanal'ghilain, but a man. He is tall, and moves with such confidence and ease his armor barely clanks. This is a man who knows his way about blade and bow. She watches him weave through recruits correcting grips, stances, barking out directions and commenting on proper form. He is not uneducated in such matters. A daughter of war should know, after all.

Then he is gliding across the snow and mud to her. Atisha blinks because the man is even taller this close and she has to tilt her head back to see his eyes. 

Creators, this man has the most lovely eyes. And mouth. And hair. And shoulders. He has such wide shoulders. Atisha swallows her nervousness at being so close to such a large person down.

She's seen him before. From a distance. Heard him before in meetings. Never spoken to him or been this close. He smells warm and sharp. Metal and work. Her fingers twitch involuntarily.

"Is it important?" He asks sharply. 

Atisha's chest tightens, her mouth tastes metallic. Shemlen and their lack of proper manners. She puts her annoyance at the greeting aside for now and pulls the letter from Nehris from her coat pocket.

"The Herald requests watchtowers built in the Hinterlands. Would you be so kind as to review the recommended locations then assist me in allocating what resources we can for it?" 

Cullen looks at her like she's stupid.

Atisha is not stupid.

"Watchtowers?" He repeats. "Build watchtowers. Me and what men?" Cullen says exasperated. Atisha blinks. "Seeing as I have troops maybe my men?" She suggests. Cullen chews his lip. He considers it a moment letting the idea wash through. Then he shakes his head. "No. Inquisition towers, Inquisition soldiers. Your men can help build. I'll find some men who can hold a shield more than twenty seconds to staff it."

Of all the foolish stubborn-

Cullen holds his hand out expectantly.

"The letter." He says by way of explanation. 

Atisha feels a scream boiling in the back of her throat. Never in her life has she been dismissed so. Atisha blinks at him, unbelieving. Cullen sighs. 

"Truly, I don't have time to review every single request. Let me have the letter. I promise I will prioritize requests from the Herald as I get to them." 

Atisha places the letter in Cullen's outstretched hand.

"Very well. I trust it will be done, Commander."

Cullen gives her a curt nod as dismissal.

Atisha's stomach twists.

How could something be so beautiful until it spoke? 

She doesn't like Haven. She doesn't like Haven with its ice and mud and cold. With its foul mouthed humans and tittering Chantry ladies. With its lovely wonderful ambassador and impressive lady of whispers and its stubborn beautiful commander. She doesn't like this place. 

Atisha wants to tell her father to forsake it all. It isn't worth the alliance. They won't be the power Father thinks they will. Let Uncle clean up his own mess.

But where would that leave sweet Nehris?


	11. Chapter 11

Atisha is a skilled mage.

This is a fact Cullen has never had to confront.

Until now.

He has forgotten that things that seem tame can be very untamed. There is an army marching on Haven. The Herald, Nehris, is still in recovery.

And so it is he and Atisha who are at the gates when the red ones descend. It is he and Atisha who hold while stragglers get inside.

The crackle of her magic makes every hair on his body stand upright at attention. Atisha calls on force magic. This surprises him. An elf woman calling force? He would think lightning and earth and fire, not force.

Cullen has no time to dwell upon this.

Atisha is fast and ruthless. She is daggers and the breaking of bones with her mind. When one of the enemies grows too close to Cullen's flank for comfort, the ground itself shudders and pushes the monster back. 

Logically, Cullen is aware that Atisha is a Dalish warrior. That she commands her own troops. That she is more than the well-dressed noble lady she displays.

Logic does not always make sense.

Because she is soaked in blood and throws herself into battle with an almost suicidal ferocity. The other elves fight just as brutually and still they are pushed back to the gates.

The battlefield seems to freeze as the earth bucks, this time nearly throwing Cullen from his feet. There is a lack of crackle. No taste of magic in the air. This is not her doing.

Then he sees it.

Maker, he sees it.

A creature of red crystal, roaring and ripping through the earth coming straight for him. Cullen has not froze in battle, not for many years. 

He freezes.

The creature's bloody stone arm comes down upon him and cracks hard against the air. It roars in displeasure shards splintering off. The singing. Maker, Cullen's head throbs at the singing. She is there so fast the ice clings to his eyelashes. Atisha, hands raised brow glistening with sweat and teeth bared is holding this monster at bay with a simple barrier.

Cullen has studied magical theory.

The barrier will break. When it does, Atisha will be in the perfect place to take the blow. He froze.

His lungs burn with exertion. Everything in him demands he turn and run. His instincts scream that this, this is too much. He is not a man strong enough to face down beasts of his worst nightmares.

But Atisha grits her teeth, and her knees bow under the weight as the creature bares down on her barrier once more. The force rings Cullen's ears. Atisha roars in response. The guttural sound sparks in Cullen's ears.

"Nehris," Atisha grinds the name out. "You have to save Nehris."

The Herald? Right. The Breach had left her weak. She had been recovering in her cabin sleeping away the damage. Surely, the Herald could help them.

"Right." Cullen barks back. Suddenly, he can move. Even knowing this woman cannot hold the beast back forever, even knowing he is abandoning her outside the gates to hold the line, he can move.

Atisha is a commander of her own right. He should remember she swore an oath as well.

The ground shakes as he turns away, and Cullen spares a glance to see the monster's arm buried in the ground where Atisha had been standing.

His chest tightens.

He does not look back again.

This war steals too many faces from him already.

And then there is a great violent fracture. The sound of shattering. Red shards fly overhead from behind embedding themselves in corpse and ice and snow. 

Atisha is a mage of skill. Cullen does not know what to do with that.


	12. Chapter 12

She finds him as they flee the Chantry into the mountains. It is an unfair trade. Nehris Lavellan for Atisha Sabrae. But if her friend wills it, she will keep these shemlen alive.

Cullen does not have time to recognize Atisha is very much not smashed to bits by the red monster.

They are too busy rushing out of the Chantry, herding their people into the unforgiving cold.

Atisha is by his side when they watch the mountain fall.

Cullen bows his head and offers a prayer to his god.

Atisha does the same.

Maybe they are not so different.

Atisha spends the rest of the long march with her uncle. Solas and her keep the Chancellor breathing long enough to see camp. Anything more is asking too much. The man belongs to Falon'din and she knows it.

Atisha prays that her Uncle is kind and swift with the souls of these shemlen. That he is gentle with their own fallen people. Haven will not leave her, she knows this. 

They camp. Fires are stoked. Those beyond healing are prayed for, and left in the ice to be recovered another day. It is bleak. It is bitter. 

Father could not know what he has asked of his daughter.

"Clear the way!"

The shout pierces through the cold and the dark. A shout like that from any man would empty a room, but from the commander? Haven's surviviors all but fling themselves out of the way.

Cullen is rushing through the camp with Cassandra hot on his heels. Not unusual. What he is carrying on the other hand, is. Atisha has to do a double take to realize it is Nehris wrapped in the man's fur cloak.

Nehris. 

Nehris who just collapsed a mountain on top of herself.

The whispers spread like wildfire. Atisha is up immediately.

"My bedroll. Now." She demands, pressing against Cullen to guide him. The chill of his armor seeps into her clothes almost instantly. He grunts in response and carries the Herald to the open tent. Nehris is ice cold, blue lipped, nearly unresponsive as he rolls her from his arms onto the bedroll.

Her only friend here.

Atisha reaches to check the warmth of the woman and draws back with a hiss. Nehris is positively icy. 

"I need Solas." The words are another woman's. Atisha is too focused on pumping Nehris full of magic, slowly running fire-heated hands over nearly purple fingers. "Right away." Comes Cassandra's reply.

Nehris has a heartbeat. She has breath.

Atisha can work with that.

And so she begins the process of reviving her friend, spowly spreading trickling warmth through her core. The wounds could wait. The chill is the biggest threat. At some point, Solas joins her, his magic harmonizing with hers so naturally.

And why shouldn't it?

He is her uncle. Maybe not by blood, but by tradition and skill. They have been raised in the same magic. Brought up to cast and weave and control the forces within and around them.

They bring Nehris back from the brink.

This does not mean Nehris wakes. She sleeps, soundly, safely, under the watchful eye of Atisha. 

Shortly after Nehris begins to snore lightly the arguing begins. 

Atisha rubs her temples willing the shemlen to be quiet but their point is not moot. Haven is gone. The Inquisition has been dealt a blow it may not recover from. Where will they flee to recover? Who shall lead them?

Will they disband? Against a force like that?

All fair questions.

If the Inquisition fizzles out, Atisha will return home. She will have failed her father. This is the first attempt at a Dalish alliance with Shems in many years. Maybe it is under false pretenses, but that point matters not in the political eye of the world.

Who will repair the damage done if the not the very people who invented the tool?

Atisha moves to stand. She will join this conversation. She has a duty. These humans cannot tuck tail and run from such monsters and destruction.

Solar settles his hand on his shoulder.

"At peace, da'len. They bark, nothing more."

Nothing more.

Atisha will stay. No matter how bloody. No matter how dismal. She will stay, because Father asked it of her. Because she is First of the Sun. Because, just maybe, she felt something tighten in her chest back in Haven when that army descended.

There are lives to take and she will stay.


	13. Chapter 13

"Vheraan, you look," Atisha pauses, trailing off to find words. She had been passing through to the tavern to bring Cole some potions he had requested when she say the commander. The way he looks has stopped her in her steps.

Cullen looks bad to be frank.

Worse than bad.

The man looks like he's been dragged by his heels from Tevinter to the Kocari Wilds. He's been sparring with Bull and Nehris all day, and it shows. As it turns out, desk jobs do make a man cushy. Even if that man has a workout routine and personally oversees training of his troops.

Cullen whips around, eyes narrowed. He is caked in dust and mud and sweat, bruised and disheveled, curls wild and damp. 

"Oh, get on with it." Cullen snaps.

"Positively dashing." Atisha says flatly, a smile betraying the dryness of her tone. 

Cullen's glare slowly melts and he runs a hand through his hair. His dirtied fingers find that tense muscle running the back of his neck and he massages it anxiously. A ghost of a smile graces his lips for a moment.

"Would you like me to ask someone to draw you a bath, Vheraan?" Atisha asks as Cullen fidgets awkwardly. Nehris and Bull have long since slinked off to the tavern for after spar drinks. It occurs to Atisha that Cullen did not do the same. She wonders why he didn't join them, but knows better than to ask. Cullen's cheeks color under the dust.

"No! I mean, there's no need for you to worry about such things! I'll see to that need myself." 

There it is. The strangely unconfident man Atisha is slowly beginning to know. Ever since the Halla-Rose Treaty things have been different between them. Easier. Maybe Atisha has been less aggressive. Maybe Cullen has been more tolerant. She isn't sure. What she does know, is that she enjoys the awkward man under the Commander's armor.

Atisha gives him a smile that she hopes is kind.

"Would you like me to tend to those then?" She asks. Atisha steps forward, fingertips almost touching one nasty bruise across his cheek. Cullen nearly falls over stumbling back. 

"Lady First, really, all this fussing is unnecessary. I am a soldier after all. It's just a bit of dirt and a few bruises, nothing threatening."

And that's when she understands.

It's a matter of manhood. Cullen hasn't been a soldier. He's been a commander. But his whole life he rough and tumbled with the templars and broke bread with them and slept amongst the snores of the men, and now, now he is separate. Not going with the Inquisitor for drinks. Standing outside alone with his mud and bruises watching the others laugh and make merry and he, he is alone.

He must feel he's gotten soft.

He must keep up the image of the sole, strong commander.

"Commander, we do need you at your very best should anything happen. Perhaps I could bring you a compress and some poultices for the bruising then?" 

Cullen considers. Then he sighs, cheeks pink and eyes downcast.

"That would be a waste of valuable medicine. If I've a healer offering I should take it."

Ah, the struggles of being a logical man. "I'm happy to, Commander." She tells him with a smile. Atisha links her arm through his. Cullen's whole body stiffen as he tries to not recoil. Then, Atisha tugs on him to lead him back towards the battlement stairway.

Cullen walks as straight as he can, but can't hide the limp from Atisha as she walks with him. She does not comment on it, but knows it is not an old wound. Nehris and Bull really pushed him today. If Nehris knew, she would never have hurt her advisor so. Atisha knows this.

Cullen is stubborn.

"Lovely weather today." Cullen states, awkward as ever, as they climb the stairs. "For a mountain you mean." Atisha teases. Cullen chuckles, cringes in pain, clears his throat. "For a mountain." Cullen agrees.

It's nice. This little peace they've fallen into. Especially nice when they aren't heated over work or politics. Atisha thinks maybe if they met under different circumstances they'd be fast friends. 

She thinks she might like that.

They reach the top of the battlements. It is a slow climb. Cullen does not want to admit to his limp or burning lungs. Atisha does not want to make him admit to it.

"Lovelier company." Atisha dares to say. Maybe circumstances don't matter. Maybe they can be easy friends. Maybe this is her Halla to him. Cullen chokes on his breath, grabbing the battlement wall for support. He blinks rapidly at her wide-eyed. "Lady First?" Cullen asks incredulously. 

Ah.

Atisha has made another mistake with shemlen it seems. At least if the confusion of this man is any indication.

"Humans do not compliment each other so?" Atisha inquires quickly. Cullen stares at her like she's grown horns for a moment as he processes. "Not like that usually, no. That's a bit more, ah, intimate." He supplies. 

It's now Atisha's turn to be mortified.

"I am so sorry, Vheraan." She tells him immediately. "I meant only that it's nice to get along. Not to court." Cullen nods a curt nod. "That's alright, you're still getting to know human culture. I appreciate the sentiment. It is nice."

Halfway to his office Cullen stops dead in his tracks. Atisha stops with him, shooting him a puzzled look.

"You know, I nearly never get sunshine any more." Cullen muses.

That never occured to her.

Atisha spends much of her time volunteering to help with healing of troops and cultivation of herbs. She sees the sun every day. But Cullen. He stays in his office for most the day organizing troops and strategizing and planning.

Her father is the god of the sun. If anyone could appreciate daylight, it would be Atisha.

"I didn't realize how much I missed it." Cullen murmurs. Atisha watches the wind toss his curls. Takes in the way he closes his eyes to bask. Cullen looks so content, basking like a cat ready to nap.

Maybe she can treat him right here. Let him enjoy the sun while she tends to the more superficial wounds.

Atisha reaches forward, fingers glowing a soft blue, and touches the bruise on his cheek. The cold of the magic soaks into his skin and with the fade of the glow, so too does the bruise go.

He raises a brow, cracking open an eye to glance at her.

"Atisha Sabrae," He begins very low and slow, voice grinding in the back of his throat, "That was painless." It sounds like a threat. Atisha blinks at him. "Of course it was. I am a healer by birth. It is my school." Both Cullen's eyes open and he focuses on her. "Healer by birth?" He repeats incredulous. 

"Are you well, Vheraan? Did Bull hit you over the head?" Atisha inquires. He isn't making much sense now fixating on the fact that she's a healer. He knows she's a healer. Atisha has been open about this.

"Capable of painless magical healing?" Cullen presses, ignoring her question. 

"Like any healer of skill, yes."

Cullen nods sagely.

"Funny. I seem to recall my ribs being snapped back into place with plenty of pain for a painless healer." 

Oh that's what this is about. The Temple of Dumat. Atisha pointedly looks at the mountains around them and not at Cullen. 

"Yes, well, I seem to recall you running off and getting hurt and not taking a healer with you." She replies haughtily.

She can practically hear the man's teeth grind.

Cullen is flabbergasted. 

"And you call me impossible! Maker have mercy, let's hope I don't burn my tongue on breakfast or you might just freeze it out of my mouth putting me right."

Atisha turns on her heel.

"That's unfair and you know it!" She snaps. Cullen steps up to her, wild and worn. "I'd say it's plenty fair considering." Atisha glares up at him. She folds her arms across her chest. "And what does that mean, exactly?" Atisha spits. Cullen's lip draws up in the corner. "You seem to change your mind about me on a whim, Atisha, and we both know it." Cullen tells her flatly. 

"That isn't true, Cullen. My mind is plenty made up about you and it's unfair of you to bring up what happened after Dumat like that."

"Is it? Because sometimes I can't tell if you hate me or if we're some kind of friends. And truthfully, it wears on me." He snaps back fast and relentless.

Atisha is torn between with the urge to scream and flee. She does not pick either. Instead, she bares her teeth and finds that poisonous part of her that always says the things she doesn't want to say, the truthful things she should not ever say, and unlocks her jaw.

"Stubborn, foolish man, I don't hate you I'm in love with you and everyone except you seems to know it!"

Atisha instantly regrets her temper. Instantly regrets speaking. Instantly regrets the look on Cullen's face. Cullen looks like she's slapped him. Shocked and hurt and angry under all that.

Atisha figures she probably looks very similar. The words were out too fast. She shouldn't have done that. Her hands fall to her side. If Cullen looked hard enough, she knows he would see her fingers tremble. 

"Cullen, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have told you that." She immediately backpeddles.

"Everyone knows except me?" Cullen repeats very quietly. Atisha can't help but feel he's missed the point. "No, not really. Just Nehris. Maybe Cole. Bull and Dorian. Leliana might, she hasn't said anything." Atisha mumbles.

Is this how those pretty birds feel in those fancy Orlesian cages? Her chest is jumping. Atisha's veins scream to run, or turn and fling herself from the walls before he can say something else.

Cullen nods. His face is blank, eyes hard and guarded.

"Okay." He says.

She does not know what that means.

"I told you before." Atisha admits. "A healer should not tend to those they care for."

"You did." Cullen tells her. 

The air is thick and hard to breathe which is odd because they are on a mountain.

"I'm sorry." Atisha finally admits, ears burning with shame. She is sorry. She's sorry she was so harsh with him after Dumat. She's sorry this afternoon has gone sour. She's even sorry to admit that she does, in fact, love this shemlen. 

Cullen exhales sharply.

"No, I'm sorry. It wasn't worthy of me to push like that. Your magic is your business. I should remember you do not have to help me." He says very matter of factly. All strict Commander and zero fun awkward Cullen.

They are quiet and tense in the warmth of this beautiful Skyhold afternoon. It's wonderful and lovely and Atisha wants to flee to her quarters and cry like a child.

It's one thing to be in love with a shemlen.

It's another to tell said shemlen and have him not respond.

Cullen grinds his teeth, hands flexing and unflexing, and finally, "You will be missed in the gardens." 

He's dismissing her. Atisha feels it like a lash in between her ribs. But she will take the escape gladly, even if it stings.

"Of course. Thank you for the walk, Commander."

Cullen steps back, gestures for her to leave, and says nothing.


	14. Chapter 14

The moon is long in the sky when there is knocking on the door to Nehris's quarters. Knocking is a polite word. Knocking implies a gentle rapping of one's knuckles. This is a full fisted pounding on the wood.

She rolls out of bed, eyes blurry with sleep and sore from the bit of crying she did earlier. Atisha's hands find the robe she keeps by her bedside. A gift from her aunt Sylaise. The robe is a lovely sheer silk in an iridescent white hand embroidered with cherry trees and lovely vines to preserve modesty.

The stone of the floor is bitterly cold and Atisha hisses in discomfort as her toes meet it. She can worry about that later. She halfheartedly warms her body a few degrees with her magic.

The pounding grows more insistent. 

"Creators give me patience, I am coming!" She shouts, shouldering on the robe over her smalls and stalking across the room. She thanks her ancestors for giving her eyes to see in the din of night. Atisha crosses the room, and rips open the door.

"It is the middle of the night this better be a life threatening situation." Atisha says as she opens the door.

She freezes when the person on the other side comes into view.

The moon is long in the sky and her silver rays turn his curls to platinum white. Atisha's chest tightens. She closes the door.

She does not want to see Cullen right now. Or sober. Or at all really.

Before it can settle into place he has put a hand on the other side and pushes it open. Atisha steps back, folds her arms over her chest.

"I apologize for the late hour." He says, eyes flashing under the moon. Atisha says nothing. Cullen shifts his weight awkwardly. He is not in his armor, she notices. One look at his hair tells her the man had been tossing and turning. 

"Can I come in?" He finally asks. 

Atisha steps back and to the side. With a quick snap of her fingers the candles in her quarters jump to life merrily flickering and lightening the room.

"Be my guest, Commander." She says dryly as she gestures for Cullen to step in. He closes the door after himself at least. Atisha crosses over to her desk, opens the top drawer and draws out a flask. She tosses it to Cullen. "Rashvine whiskey. For the cold." He catches it easily, nods, and gladly undoes the top to drink. 

After Cullen has had a few swallows, Atisha finally asks.

"What can I do for you?"

Cullen seals the flask and tosses it back to her. Atisha greedily uncorks it and drains as much as she can manage in a few gulps. 

"I owe you an apology." He tells her quietly. Atisha perches on her desk, leans back and watches him closely. "Earlier, on the battlements-"

Atisha holds a hand up and interrupts him.

"Please don't. You made yourself very clear, and I'd like to leave it now."

Cullen blinks. Atisha takes another pull of the whiskey. It burns going down and she is grateful she can feel the burn in her chest. A different burn. 

"I did not make myself clear." Cullen tells her. "And I have things to say." 

"In the dead of night?"

"No rest for the wicked, I'm afraid." 

Atisha feels something dark and unkind in her tighten at his casual tone. Cullen gives her an expectant look. Atisha resigns herself to be hostage to Cullen's explanation and gestures for him to take a seat at her office chair. 

Once he makes himself comfortable, Cullen speaks. 

"I grew up a farm boy in Fereldan, and at the ripe age of thirteen I joined the templars." Cullen begins. "I was a templar for many years, only recently have I left the order."

"Yes, I am aware of all of this." Atisha tells him.

"My life has given me precious little time or experience in things like infatuation. It has especially given me less experience with the Dalish and so I am afraid I have not understood you well at all, Atisha." 

Atisha blinks. Cullen reaches for the flask. She hands it to him. Cullen gratefully sucks down a mouthful. He scrubs a hand over his eyes.

"Between my lack of experience and my, uh, headaches, I am sorry for how I treated you today."

"You practically broke my door down at midnight to say you're sorry?" 

"I'm not doing much better now than earlier am I?" He mumbles. He looks up at her and instantly his whole body stiffens. Atisha tilts her head to the side in confusion at the sudden tension. 

She can hear his heartbeat take off galloping.

Atisha, perched on her desk in the middle of the night is one thing. But she has crossed one leg over the other and her robe has shifted just so that he can see the gold tattoos on her thigh. He should not have seen that, Cullen knows. He can feel his cheeks heating so, he looks up.

A worse mistake.

When Atisha first arrived in Haven, she and Josephine had to have a tailor sent. Cullen remembers this. He remembers Leliana all but glittering with joy as she talked about the complexity and beauty of Dalish silks.

Somehow he had forgotten Leliana's fixation on the sheerness of such silks.

Cullen almost falls out of the chair averting his eyes. He brings a hand up to his forehead to shield himself from looking again.

They really do wear those tattoos everywhere. 

And the jewelry.

His mouth runs dry.

"Maker," Cullen breathes softly, then stumbles. "I, all I wanted to say was I'm sorry, and I would like to get to know you better."

Atisha takes another pull of the flask watching the man twitch and focus his gaze hard on the floor.

"Okay." Atisha says and it is nothing like the okay he said to her earlier on the settlement. It is full of amusement and a hint of laughter. Cullen feels the blush spreading to his chest. She's laughing at him. Not aloud, but he can feel the amusement rolling off of her in waves.

"Which means?" He asks.

"Which means okay. If you want to get to know me then okay. Does it have to be tonight though? I had a meeting and I'm sure my father will not appreciate lateness."

Cullen all but jumps out of his chair.

"Oh sweet Maker, I forgot that your people correspond in the Fade."

Atisha laughs this time. It is like bells, or the first snow, sparkling and gentle. 

"All is well Commander. After all, you know little of the Dalish, and I know little of humanity. But we are not so different. We both work through the night." She says with a dazzling smile, elegantly dropping off the desk. Her robe flutters for a brief moment before her feet tough the ground. Cullen watches her hiss, audibly hiss, at contact and her ears twitch. Atisha walks towards the door to his quarters which he takes as an invitiation to leave, and so he follows.

"Just one question." Cullen says when he reaches the door.

"Just one?" Atisha teases.

"People say Dalish elves have better senses than other elves. Is it true?"

"Can I outhear Nehris? Yes. I can count heartbeats four rooms further than she if I focus."

Cullen blinks.

"Elves can hear heartbeats?" He asks dumbfounded.

"If we want to. Being a mage helps. Goodnight Commander."

"Now I've more questions."

Atisha shakes her head and opens the door.

"Goodnight." She says a littlr more forcefully.


	15. Chapter 15

Atisha enjoys working the gardens in Skyhold. It is simple work. It reminds her of her childhood with her Guardian. He taught her to embrace the wilds in her blood. Atisha likes the feeling of her hands in the dirt, the texture of life on her fingertips. 

Although, working with plants does make her miss her Guardian fiercely.

Suledin hated that she was asked to leave the Dales. He hated that Father and the other Evanura denied his request to go with her. The son of Dirthamen, denied passage, Suledin was furious when she last saw him.

She digs her fingers to the bottom of the pot, gently lifting the roots of this new Royal Elfroot out of the container. 

Would Suledin still be angry if he knew how safe she was?

Part of her thought he was angry with her. Maybe he was. But working the earth reminds her of him. Of his smile, and rare laugh. Of his calloused hands and the way he taught her to grip a bow and clean a fish.

Atisha carries the plant over to the permanent spot for it in the ground. This is not a burial. It is something opposite. She settles the plant into its spot and begins scooping handfuls of dirt into the hole mindful to not cover the bottom ridge.

Someone is walking towards her. Someone heavy by the way the ground vibrates every so gently under her. Not Bull's gait. Definitely not Suledin who she misses dearly.

"Lady Sabrae."

Ah. Commander 'Let's Talk At Three In The Morning' Rutherford. Atisha's ears twitch. Did he call her by her name? She wasn't mistaken. He used her name not her title. Odd. She didn't think the man knew her surname, let alone how to pronounce it.

"Cullen." She replies as she wipes of mud off of her hands onto her work apron. Atisha focuses on making sure the plant is standing straight and checking each of the leaves for stability. The royal type is usually very difficult. She is amazed at how well behaved this one is being.

"I, ah, thought you could walk with me back to my office. I've just come from the war table, and there's some requests I have of your men." Cullen tells her. But there's something different.

It's a request not a demand.

Atisha whips around wide eyed. Was he making requests of her? Was that manners? Cullen is pink cheeked and shifting his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other. 

"You're asking?" She clarifies.

"I'm asking." He agrees.

Atisha spares a glance at her replanted Elfroot. It seems to be happy, but it will take a day to know. All the plants get watered three times a day, it will be fine.

"Lead the way." She tells him, and so he does. Immediately he gets down to business.

"Emprise du Lion is still wildly unstable. Though our men have taken Suledin Keep, I find myself in need of mages of talent to help the people of Sahrnia." Cullen admits. 

Atisha is listening, really she is. She's simply distracted.

He didn't style his hair this morning.

The light really does play on the curvature of his curls when he doesn't slick it back properly. It's a rare day when the Commander doesn't tame his mane. Perhaps the lack of sleep made him late for his war table meeting. Perhaps he ran out of the styling cream he uses. 

Atisha finds she doesn't particularly care. He has lovely hair. If they were on better terms maybe she would tug on one of those curls and see it bounce. It reminds her of her sister's mother, Illora. Illora with her platinum curls, white like the halla, blue eyed and brilliant.

Illora who Atisha remembers at the edges of her memory. Who she misses dearly. Who was kinder than her own mother.

Cullen should leave his hair down more often.

"Atisha?"

It occurs to her he's been speaking and waiting for her input. Cullen halts in his tracks, turns just enough to catch her eye. It also occurs to her that he is using her name. Her given name. And he is waiting for a response still.

Right. Emprise du Lion. Troops. Elvhen support.

"A map would be helpful. Most of my men are still focused in Crestwood." She manages. Cullen blinks. "Right yes, as I said, it will take weeks to get your men from Crestwood to the Emprise. However, the Dales are closer, perhaps you could write to your Father and send fresh men?"

Atisha gets the feeling he is repeating himself for her sake.

She feels her cheeks burn.

"Right, yes, I can ask him tonight." She confirms. Cullen grants her a ghost of a smile. "Thank you." He tells her, and he gestures for her to keep walking. Atisha follows as elegantly as she can manage with the embarrassment. 

"You seem distracted." Cullen comments. Atisha wills her veins to slow their kicking. Surely, he can hear her anxiety. 

"You didn't slick your hair." She tells him. Cullen blinks at her a bit taken aback. He gently brushes his curls back off his forehead, attempting to smoothe them out to no avail. Instead, he manages only to static them and make them frizz. "Yes, I'm afraid I couldn't get them under control." He admits, glowering all the while. "Honestly, I suspect rain with the way they've been behaving." Then almost shyly, "It bothers you?"

Atisha shakes her head, smiles a reassuring smile.

"My Tree-Mother had curls like you." She tells him. "I miss her." 

Cullen tilts his head up to the sky. "There is so much I don't understand." He murmurs. "What is a Tree-Mother?" Cullen asks. He hopes he is kind. He doesn't know anything about the Dalish other than they lack templars and wear tattoos. The words Atisha uses, he doesn't know them. The world she comes from is so different than the world the Inquisition lives in.

"She was my father's Sa'lath, his first love. Among my people we get to choose our first. She was not my mother, my mother was my father's second and duty. Father had a tree of three, Illora my Tree-Mother, Rhaeha my mother, and Iren, my Tree-Father."

Cullen looks increasingly confused.

"Sorry, Dalish have multiple marriages at once amongst nobility to solidify alliances and perform duty. Illora was my Father's Sa'lath. She was a mother to me."

That seems to be easier for Cullen to digest and he nods slowly. "And my hair reminds me of your Tree-Mother?" Atisha nods. "Maybe you'd have an idea of how to get them to lie flat without shearing them off then." Cullen says lightly. Atisha can't stop the giggle that bubbles out. "Adahl-Mamae did not attempt to tame hers. She was like a cloud, touched by the sky. It was like she floated through life. I'm afraid I'd be little help."

Cullen shrugs. Worth a shot he figures. Anything to smoothe down these infernal things and look a proper Knight instead of an angry sheep. Atisha leans around the side of him and waves a small wave. Cullen turns to see who she's greeting and finds himself stepping back from Atisha and standing a bit straighter subconsciously. 

"Good morning, Nehris!" Atisha greets her fellow elf.

"Inquisitor." Cullen says by way of greeting with a bow of his head.

Nehris Lavellan looks just as miserably cheerful as she did first thing this morning, Cullen notes. He has not always been a morning person. It was beat into him through years of templar training, but he never enjoyed being awake early. Nehris genuinely seems to rise with the dawn, chirping like morning birdsong happily.

The Inquisitor happily bounds over to Atisha, planting a kiss on the woman's cheek. Cullen recalls the first time Nehris had done that to him. He'd nearly jumped out of his skin in shock and had all but thrown her away from him. He now understands that it's just one of those things that is so very Nehris. She is so free with her affections. Cullen had wondered if it is a Dalish thing, but after dealing with Atisha's hot and cold behavior he's thinking it might be a Nehris thing.

He had asked her to please not do such things to him at the least.

Nehris still complies with that and flashes him a brilliant smile instead. "Cullen! I thought you'd be holed away in your office by now scribbling furiously. Decide to get some fresh air before you lock yourself away in your tower?" Nehris's rift-green eyes glimmer with mirth as she asks it. Then, they focus in on him in such a way to make his skin crawl.

Immediately, Cullen feels quite naked even in all his armor. It's like she's staring into him. Nehris shoots Atisha a look and her grin turns positively wicked when Atisha's left ear flicks in response.

"Right, well I thought I'd check with Atisha about the support for Sahrnia." Cullen says. He sounds a little less sure of himself than he should. Of course, it's hard to not be intimidated when the Inquisitor herself is staring at him like he's a fat bird with a broken wing and she's a house at preparing for the kill.

"Atisha is it? I wasn't aware the two of you were so close."

Now he's done it.

"Ma'falon, mercy you'll give the poor man a heart attack." Atisha murmurs behind Nehris. Nehris ignores this advice. She, instead cocks her head sharply to the side, and observes Cullen further. Apparently satisfied, she turns her steel-sharp gaze to Atisha.

The woman doesn't even flinch.

"You know Solas just told me the most interesting thing, lethallin."

"Oh? Pray tell." Atisha replies.

Cullen takes the opportunity to take a step away. Instantly, Nehris's hand is up and her finger is pointed harshly at him.

"Our dearest Commander has an interest in Elvhen. Isn't that right, Cullen?"

Deer in the glint of an arrow. Cullen clears his throat and shoots a pleading look to Atisha who seems indifferent. 

"I, uh, may have asked for his assistance in a translation, yes."

Nehris brings her hand back and points it to Atisha now.

"The word in question?" Nehris tells her. "Vhenan."

Cullen watches color rise to the tip of Atisha's ears. The poor woman looks like she's sinking in a sea of roses she's so pink. He imagines he must look the same.

"Whatever for?" Atisha asks, eyes locked with Cullen's now. Cullen instantly defends himself. "A man likes to know what he is called." Nehris looks giddy at the response but Atisha looks horrified. Atisha stalks around the Inquisitor, red cheeked and narrow eyed. "Who calls you so?" She demands. Jealousy flares angry and hot and ugly in her chest.

Someone called him vhenan.

She will know who, and she will step back.

Cullen looks absolutely baffled.

"You do. All the time."

Atisha blinks.

"I do not. I have never called you that." Especially not aloud. Now Cullen's brows knit together. "Then what is that word you call me?" 

Nehris is overjoyed at the chaos ensuing. She must be some kind of nightmare demon to derive joy from this, Atisha thinks.

Realization crosses both their faces at the same time and Atisha blurts out, "Vheraan, you meant vheraan."  
Cullen nods. "Yes! That's the one! Solas was wrong then?" Atisha nods furiously. Nehris cackles. "Lion, Commander, she calls you lion."

"It means lion." Atisha confirms.

Cullen feels a great weight lift from his shoulders. This whole conversation has his stomach twisting like he's on the open sea. 

"Oh, good, I'm glad we sorted that out." Cullen tells the women. Nehris grins. "You thought she was saying vhenan, knew what it meant, and never said anything? I just need to get this straight." Nehris's comment has that weight right back on his chest.

"Lethallin, leave the poor man alone." Atisha chides.

"No, she's right. I knew what it meant and thought it was what was said. I just didn't mind. I figured if it was important I know, she'd tell me."

Atisha's veins jump. Cullen suddenly finds something very interesting on the ground. Nehris claps her hands together loudly. "Did you hear that falon? He doesn't mind being called vhenan by you! Isn't that wonderful news?" 

Cullen feels his skin crawl. He wants to squirm out of his body and be anywhere but here. Atisha makes eye contact with him, and her eyes narrow. She turns her attention to Nehris.

"Nehris, I understand you are the Inquisitor and so I cannot kill you, but that doesn't mean I cannot make you wish you were dead." Atisha says very lowly.

Nehris dances away as Atisha reaches out to claw at one of her ears. 

"I'm trying to do you a favor, Atisha!" Nehris pleads as Atisha chases after her. "You and half of Skyhold!" Atisha snaps back. "If we don't you won't!" Nehris shouts back as Atisha gains on her. Cullen watches as Atisha catches up to Nehris and full body tackles the Inquisitor to the ground.

The elves tumble to the ground rolling and poking at each other and hissing in Elvhen.

"Na abelas!" Atisha demands.

"Banal! Tel'abelas!" Nehris retorts.

They go on repeating this and rolling and snapping their teeth at each other. Cullen notes immediately that they aren't harming one another. It's more like a game of say uncle. 

Finally, Atisha pins one of Nehris's ears to the ground. Nehris yelps. Actually yips in pain like a dog whose paw has just been stepped on. Cullen steps forward. This is amusing until there is pain, then he needs to step in. He's the commander for Andraste's sake he can't let his Inquisitor and Ambassador tumble about like ruffians.

"Not another step." Atisha snarls and something feral in her tone halts him.

Nehris draws back her lips and hisses at Atisha like a wild cat.

"Na abelas." Atisha says very low.

"Banal."

Cullen watches Atisha's shoulder tense as she applies pressure to Nehris's ear. Nehris whimpers and kicks her feet helplessly.

"Fine, fine! I'll do it." Nehris yelps.

"Then do it and I'll let go." Atisha says.

"Cullen, I am very sorry for making you uncomfortable!" Nehris all but cries out. Atisha has dug her nails into the soft shell of Nehris's ear for good measure.

"And?" She prods.

"And I won't ever bother you about your personal life like that again!"

Atisha seems satisfied with this and rolls off of Nehris who immediately cradles her ear and gives Atisha a dark glare. "You are a wicked evil woman." Nehris sniffles. Atisha shrugs. "Meddlers get their due."

Cullen is appalled.

"You should go Commander, your work awaits and I must have words with Solas and the Inquisitor." Atisha says.

He takes the dismissal gladly.


	16. Chapter 16

"So, this is your Inquisition?"

The dignitary from the Dales comments. Nehris has heard of her guest before. Suledin, son of Dirthamen. An excellent Shadow, well spoken of in her country. 

Not to mention lovely.

He has the most beautiful dark hair that runs long and smooth over his shoulders like a black river. His eyes, Creators his eyes. She's heard Dirthamen's children to be beautiful, but never had the pleasure of meeting one before. Especially one so tall, and lovely, and polite.

"Yes, this is it." Nehris tells him. Suledin hums in response.

Even his voice is lovely.

"You've done well." He tells her, eyes sweeping across the grounds from the doors of the great keep. His gaze stops at the training ring, fixating on the area around the tavern.

He would know her even blind and dead.

Atisha, all fire and control, tumbling through the dirt with a shemlen man. Suledin watches the grip, the twist, the pull of muscle in her shoulders he knows so well as she plants the man in the dirt.

There is something beautiful in the way the sun gleams on her teeth that makes his heart kick. If he focuses, he can hear the harsh exhale of force as she slams the human down. He can almost taste the salt of her brow. Everything in him aches to run to her, to pull the fabric of the world and step into that ring.

Shouts and cheers erupt from the group watching. A few humans, a couple of elves, a dwarf or two, and interestingly enough a Qunari. Bags of money are tossed to and fro as they cheer and argue.

"Inquisitor Lavellan, would you mind terribly if I left your company? I see an old friend, and should like to greet her." Suledin does not rip his gaze from Atisha as he says it. Nehris understands immediately. She can hear the change in his breath, in his chest. "Of course. We'll talk more later."

Suledin does not need to be told twice. His magic wreathes tight around him and with an aura of frost he takes three steps to find himself across the courtyard.

Her magic immediately floods over him, sharp and investigative. He greets her energy with the embrace of his own. The shock has her twisting around and rolling off the human so fast she can barely breathe.

"Suledin."

She manages his name and then he is over the fence and she is in his arms. Atisha crashes into him with the force of a fallen dragon, face buried in the crook of his neck. She breathes deep, arms tightening like steel around him. Like she's afraid he'll disappear if she releases him.

"It's really you." Atisha mumbles into his coat. Suledin laughs, hoisting her up and twirling in a circle. Her hair bounces with the movement and she laughs back, grinning wantonly. 

Creators, he missed her.

"Aneth ara, da'vhenan." Suledin greets her, drawing her in for one last tight embrace before releasing her.

The human she has just put down gets himself up and pats the dirt off as he stalks to the otherside of the ring. The Qunari pats him on the shoulder as he passes.

"Friend of yours 'Sha?" The Qunari asks.

Atisha turns to meet the warrior's gaze and flashes a dazzling smile.

"Yes. Suledin, this is The Iron Bull. He has been a good friend to me here."

Suledin gives the man a once over and nods.

"Andiran atish'an, The Iron Bull."

Bull grins that lopsided grin of his.

"Suledin huh? 'Sha has told me about you. Good to meet the legend in the flesh. You'll have to have a drink with me and the boys later, tell me if half the stories are true."

Suledin arches a brow at Atisha.

"Stories is it? You aren't talking me out of my boots again are you, da'vhenan?"

"I've said nothing that isn't true." She replies indignantly and crosses her arms across her chest. Suledin considers.

"A drink with good company would be nice, thank you Ser Bull."

Bull flicks his fingers.

"Ah, Bull is just fine."

"Very well, Bull it is."


	17. Chapter 17

"I'm fairly certain that Dalish Lord is trying to kill me." Cullen announces in Josephine's office. They are trying to figure out the details of the Winter Palace right now, and the way Cullen says it so factually catches everyone's attention.

Gossip is more fun than learning the names and games of all thr big nobles after all.

"Lord Suledin?" Josephine asks.

Cullen nods.

Leliana looks delighted at the confirmation.

Nehris and Atisha look at each other in confusion.

"Do you have any evidence?" Leliana asks.

Cullen glowers. "Not yet. But the man looks like he wants to stab me anytime we talk."

"That doesn't mean he wants to kill you." Josephine supplies.

Nehris and Atisha have growing looks of concerned amusement.

"Yes, well, he's unusual to say the least. And he lurks about at odd hours. I've seen it." Cullen tells them. "I don't like it. Something about him is off."

Atisha steps forward, settles a hand on Cullen's forearm. "Cullen," she murmurs softly, "Dalish hearing." She reminds the man. Josephine's eyebrows go up. Leliana is grinning wickedly. 

"So, you just have a gut feeling? That doesn't usually hold up in court, Commander." Leliana says.

"Why would our guest want to kill you? He isn't even here for you." Nehris comments.

Atisha nods.

"I'm not sure of that myself." Cullen replies.

Suledin had only come at the request of the Evanuris. Father does not like the sound of this ball at the Winter Palace, and does not seek to send his First alone. Suledin is to accompany her. To protect her. Like he always does.

Cullen folds his arms across his chest. "I've survived enough men who wanted to kill me to tell you he wants to kill me. You don't last long as a templar without a decent survival instinct."

"Why don't we just ask him?" Nehris asks.

"Yes, why don't you just ask me?" Suledin adds.

The whole room jumps, save Atisha who felt him enter. She tightens her grip on Cullen's arm to keep him from stalking across the room. 

Suledin looks all too content at the annoyance on Cullen's face. Suledin locks his gaze upon Josephine's desk all at once. He crosses the room, peeks down at the sketches for uniforms Josephine's tailor has provided. His nose screws up in distaste, and he points to the sketch. "You don't expect me to put Atisha in that do you? I'd be executed for treason the second I stepped back in the Dales if I did that."

Josephine blinks. "Do you find them so distasteful, Lord Suledin?" He hands the documents to her. "I think the Dalish will dress ourselves for this event. If that suits the Inquisition." Josephine nods. "It suits just fine." Suledin then turns back to the rest of the room.

"Commander Rutherford? I believe you had an inquiry, or perhaps an accusation?" 

Cullen tenses under Atisha's touch. She can feel him growing more and more restless. "No, just a suspicion." Suledin arcs a brow. His magic tugs at Atisha lightly, pulling her a step back from Cullen. "And what would that suspicion be?" Suledin asks. Atisha shoots him a look and flicks an ear. He flicks both ears in response. Nehris looks suddenly quite uncomfortable.

Cullen's mouth draws into a tight line. Leliana shakes her head at him. He grinds his teeth.

"Forget I said anything." Cullen grumbles. He shoves past Atisha and Nehris, passing by Suledin along the way, and storms out of Josephine's office.

Nehris rushes over to Atisha immediately. She settles a hand on Atisha's and glares ovef at Suledin. 

"Would one of you ladies like to go over the plans for the ball with me?" Suledin asks.


	18. Chapter 18

Deep cranberry red. Like picking berries with Suledin in spring and autumn. Blackberry. Cranberry. The world is spinning. Someone is calling her home, calling her back from picking berries with Suledin.

It isn't Mother.

Who's calling for her?

Why can't Atisha feel her fingers or toes?

Something tastes sharp and metallic. Bile. Her mind cannot wrap around what's happening but there's black snow in the sky and so much deep red. She's never seen black snow.

Would Cullen like the snow?

She can feel the flakes softly land on her. They smell of hot springs. A summer snow storm in a wrong color. She still can't feel her fingers or toes, but the air is sharp and the ground is cold, and Atisha wants to close her eyes and wait for Suledin to come get her.

A woman is calling for her.

Atisha can feel someone tugging at her shoulders. She can't quite make the voice or face out. Everything is so bright. In the distance she can hear shouting. Where is she? Why is there shouting?

Where is Suledin? 

He isn't supposed to leave her side.

Atisha can feel her body being dragged across the snow by the shouting woman. Doesn't the woman know she's trying to go home? Why is she taking Atisha away?

"Da'len." Softly, cutting through the haze. She knows that voice. She knows this man. She cannot see him, but his magic is familiar. 

Uncle is here. He's come to take her home. To take her back to Suledin and the Sun Citadel. She reaches for the voice, but her arm doesn't move.

"Tel'ghilana din'an, da'len." 

Why would he tell her that?

She's fine. She's just been picking berries is all and now it's snowing.

Her mouth won't form the words to tell uncle this.

Uncle's magic is rich and gentle and so warm, and Atisha is so very cold and tired. Suledin will understand. She was with uncle. He will be mad she didn't tell him, but then he will understand and they'll go riding in the woods later. Or maybe if she's very lucky he will sneak into her room with treats and they'll tell stories all night like they used to.

It will be okay. She's just going to rest for a while. Uncle will take care of her.

Atisha closes her eyes and gives in to the call of sleep.


	19. Chapter 19

"You took her dragon hunting? What in the Maker's name were you thinking?" 

Nehris has never seen Cullen angry. Not even when Samson had slipped away at Dumat. But here he is, red with rage and bristling and shouting questions at her without mercy. He stalks to and fro across the room. If he stops moving he will break things and Cullen wants to have more control than that.

"I was thinking I needed a healer. There were reports of two dragons in the area and it needed stabilized. It was hardly my first hunt."

Cullen whirls on his heel, nostrils flaring.

"So you took our Dalish Ambassador? Why not an Inquisition healer? Why her?" He demands.

"Atisha volunteered, Cullen. I didn't take her with this in mind." 

And now Atisha is in the next room over. Solas had put the pieces of her back together roughly, and they had expidited a trip back to fix the rest of it.

She hasn't regained consciousness since the fight.

"Maker help me, Nehris, she better recover."

Nehris starts.

"Are you threatening me, Cullen?"

Cullen freezes. His eyes widen and his jaw drops. It did sound like a threat, didn't it?

"No, I, forgive me. I would never. I'm sorry, Inquisitor."

He trails off unsure what to say. What could he say? Somehow, he feels responsible. If he had known, maybe he could have forbade her from leaving. She made him swear once to not die for this, then she runs off and doesn't come back, not really.

Nehris sighs. The tension leaves her shoulders with the exhale and she wipes at her eyes. 

"Cullen, she is my dearest friend. I understand you're hurting, but I would never have brought her if I knew. Please, believe that."

He does. Maker, he does, and that's the problem. He blames it on the lyrium withdrawals, but he isn't strong in the face of this. In the privacy of this room where there is only he and Nehris, he allows himself to be weak.

"I will not lose her." He tells Nehris.

"Nor will I." Nehris assures him.

But what does one do when their best healer is the one in need of a healer? Right now, Solas and the Dalish dignitary are with her. The men have refused to leave her side. Water when she's hot, potion for infection, magic when a wound sticks to bandages and reopens. 

It's been three days. Cullen prays, but doesn't visit her bedside. Not with those two there. He had tried once, but something about the way Suledin looked at Atisha didn't sit well with him. It had made his hands tighten into fists and his stomach twist and he had to leave for fear of being sick or worse.

The door to the sickroom opens abruptly. Suledin stalks out. His eyes are bloodshot and bruised, the man has barely slept watching over her. He turns his wild gaze on Cullen.

"She's awake. She's asking for you." He spits it out anger and venom and hate thick in his unused voice. Nehris is at Suledin's side in an instant, ears flicking and hands settling on his side to walk with him. She spares Cullen a look and nods towards the sickroom.

The poor man stayed with her three days and she sends him away. Cullen feels for him a little. Only a little. Because a nasty part of him is gleeful she is awake, and asking for him. She wants to see him. 

The room reeks of infection and death. 

He hasn't seen her. Not really. He regrets seeing her now.

Atisha is sunken cheeked, pale, purple bruises ring her eyes. She is tucked under a few layers of blankets. Solas has been kind enough to braid her hair to stave off tangles. Cullen notes a small table of salves, surgical tools, and bandages at the bedside. Solas is tending to Atisha, slowly helping her drink water as Cullen crosses the room.

He's going to be sick.

If Nehris hadn't gutted that lizard he might have just marched out the door and done it himself.

"Cullen." Atisha grinds his name out. Her voice is damaged even. His heart twists in his chest. Cullen has taken lightning to the chest before and it hurt less. 

His hand finds hers before he can process crossing the room.

"I'm here."

Her cracked lips stretch out in a hint of a smile. Blood well from the dryness. Solas is above her immediately, fingers gently smearing salve across her lips. "Hush, da'len, you need rest." He murmurs. Cullen agrees. She needs to be better. He has to have her better. 

"Tea?" She inquires. Solar nods. "Of course, da'len." And makes himself busy with a cabinet across the room. Cullen smells pungent herbs. No doubt a custom blend. Then Atisha turns her attention back to Cullen. "Ma'vheraan, ir abelas, I should have told you I was leaving." 

He hates the drag of her voice. Hates the way she has to force up the words. Hates that he knows she has called him 'mine', hates that it doesn't bother him. So much hate.

"Don't do it again." He tells her. Atisha smiles, blood pooling into the ointment on her lips. "I won't." She tells him. Solar has heated a cup of tea and brings himself back to her bedside.

"Da'len, you're bleeding." He scolds lightly. Atisha blinks slowly. "Some things are worth blood, hahren." She tells him. "And some things can wait until you're well, Atisha." Cullen chides. She frowns a little at that. 

"Stay at least?"

"As long as I am able."


	20. Chapter 20

Atisha did not think this would happen.

Truly, she didn't.

But here she is, back to cool stone and one very large, very warm, Cullen pressed nearly flush against her. Atisha cannot breathe. She is crushed between stone and the steel of his breastplate. Cullen's gloves are such a soft leather. She would have never guessed. His fingers trace her pulse slowly. 

Atisha feels very small and very weak in her knees all the sudden.

The Commander of the Inquisiton, pressing her to his office wall and stroking her throat with the back of his fingers is a bit much. Her knees feel weak. Creators, her bones are bird thin when he touches her.

His eyes practically smolder.

His glove glides down to her exposed shoulder. Where the leather brushes her vallaslin feels like lightning. Atisha cannot help the way her body tenses and breath flutters against her ribs trying to escape. Cullen's fingers pinch the silk hanging from her upper arm declaratively. He pulls it up over her shoulder as a faux sleeve.

"You are not wearing this."

Cullen murmurs. He steps back just enough to drink in her appearance once more, cheeks pink and eyes deeper than usual. He worries his lip between his teeth for a moment, then pulls the silk up on her other side. 

Dalish silks leave so little to the imagination.

It isn't that he doesn't appreciate it. He does. Maker, he shouldn't. But he's long past any of the guilt that comes with looking. Especially with her. 

Long past that when he can see the gleam of jewelry at the peaks of her breasts under the silks.

Cullen's mouth runs dry.

"It was sent from the Sun Citadel for the Winter Palace." She reminds him.

Cullen's eyes follow the sheer iridescent gleam of the pearl white silk. It is layered with a thinner gold silk that shimmers with magical enchantment. Delicate gold chains dangle and drape over the curves of fabric and Atisha, tiny crystals shimmering from each chain link. 

It's truly a beautiful piece of art.

And all he can think about is equal parts taking it off and giving her his cloak to cover up. Maker help him, this woman does make things difficult.

"You're not wearing this." He reinforces. Cullen can't help it if his tone is a little harsher. The thought of those Orlesians tittering over her and oogling her, no. Absolutely not. She isn't for them.

"Why not, Cullen?" Atisha demands. And he can see the color in her cheeks, the rising of her chest as her breath catches. Cullen is trying to be a better man. Really he is. But he can't help it. The way she looks at him, the way she breathes his name. And she loves him. This beautiful woman loves him and he has been so foolish. Andraste, forgive him, because his arm is around her waist, and his fingers are brushing her hair from her face.

And the tiny sound she makes when he pulls her to him breaks him.

Cullen finds himself kissing Atisha. Finds her leaning up into him all too eagerly with a soft whimper. His god can judge him later, because right now all he wants is her tongue against his. Cullen isn't known for not getting what he wants. He nips her bottom lip, runs his tongue over after to soothe it.

Atisha squeaks and tangles her fingers in his hair.

Actually squeaks.

The sound goes right to his thighs.

"Cullen," She breathes into his mouth and if that doesn't undo him. He slides his hands down to her thighs and hoists her up, silk dress and all, up onto his hips. This angle is better. Something about her tilting her head down and nipping at his lips is better. "Vheeran." Atisha sighs again, more insistent.

She is so small, nearly weightless. So tiny and soft and warm and-

"Oh! I'm so sorry! I wasn't aware you had company!"

Cullen nearly drops Atisha in shock at Nehris's entry. Instead, he sets her down quickly and turns on his heel. He angles himself in front of Atisha subconsciously.

Maker, what was he doing? 

"Inquisitor! Is it noon already?" Their meeting. How could he forget?

Atisha's hand is on the back of his elbow and she murmurs. "I should go."

He doesn't want that. He wants her to stay. He wants to not be the Commander right now. It isn't possible now. 

Nehris is bright red with embarrassment.

Atisha drags her fingers down his arm, squeezes his fingers. "Drinks later, Cullen?" He squeezes her fingers back. "Yours or mine?" Atisha smiles. "Mine."

And she leaves him to his duties and his thoughts.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter is nsfw!

Cullen does not like the rumors.

Of course there were rumors before. How could there not be? After all, she spends so much time in his office. And his office happens to be his quarters. And soldiers are not usually a gentlemanly sort.

'Did you hear? Commander Rutherford took a knife-ear magicker to bed.'

'The old Knight-Captain? A magicker? A rabbit?'

'Aye. It's true, heard it myself from another. Tenderly they say, too.'

'Tenderly? What a world when men like him fall so far.'

It isn't the first time he's heard it. Won't be the last. But it wears on him. The language wears on him. They cannot talk about elves so here. Mages either. But the elf thing concerns him specifically when their Inquisitor is also an elf.

The men don't speak about Nehris so. 

Cullen wonders if they don't think of her as an elf. She's the Herald of Andraste after all.

But he hates the rumors. The way they frame him as some monster who couldn't possibly be kind to a woman with the gift of magic. All because he wore the flaming sword for so long. He couldn't possibly be gentle with an elf, after all he's human with a good position.

It wears on him.

The first time he hears it repeated, he puts the poor lad on duty mucking stables instead of field work.

'Since you've a affinity for behaving like shit, you can shovel it.' 

A cold remark for Cullen. One he regrets only on account of the youth of the soldier. But he cannot allow such filth to fester. Not if he intends to defend Atisha. Not if he intends to foster an Inquisition where all faithful are welcome.

The Inquisition should come first, he knows.

But it can be hard to put an idea over a person. Especially when she gives him the key to her quarters and tells him she trusts him with everything in her. Especially when he gives her the same courtesy. How is he to put an idea first when she has given him everything? 

Cullen cannot just ignore such unkind words. He wants to on some level. Wants to keep the peace. But he cannot. He stamps out the language harshly. The rumors, not so much. That's harder to do when he sleeps in her quarters and takes his meals with her. Harder to do when Atisha brings him comforting tea for his lyrium headaches daily and everyone sees it.

Hard to deny the truth, he supposes.

And the truth is he is taking her to bed. They all know it. Tenderly is fair, he knows. But her status as a mage and her existence as an elf has never affected this fact at all. But he doesn't just bed the woman. He sleeps with her. He laughs with her. He spars with her and studies with her and learns language and they plan strategy and she is more than just a roll and a key. His soldiers do not understand this. Frankly, some of his own friends do not understand this.

And Cullen is weary.

It is late when he turns the key in her door. She will hear it, sharp ears and sharper fears, but will know his heartbeat and will go back to sleep easy. Cullen closes the door behind him as quietly as possibly and is of careful mind when he bolts it. 

Atisha's quarters take the shape of a sideways 'T'. The bottom half of the letter has been converted into an office. Where the room widens has a partition on the right to preserve privacy to the bath, a nice one installed by the Dalish for her. The partition is a glittering mosiac mural of her family crest. The Vallaslin of Elgar'nan. To the left behind the wall is her bed, where he knows she is sleeping soundly. Of course there are wardrobes and cabinets littered about against walls, tables and shelves, but they move upon her whim. Beside the bath on the right is a door leading to guest quarters. A small room, likely designed for servants.

It is in disuse.

Cullen knows her quarters even in the dark and easily lights a candle on her desk.

Atisha has left an enchanted serving tray for him. She knows how he usually misses meals, and makes great effort to ensure he eats. Under the silver dome, Cullen finds a hot bowl of soup, an ice cold mug of sweet berry juice, and an oven fresh half loaf of bread.

Magic has it's perks.

The tray keeps the temperature of anything placed within. An expensive luxury to be sure and he knows she bought it solely with him in mind. Cullen's heart swells at the thought as he pulls a chair over and snags a spoon from the tray.

Soft arms settle around his neck, fingers tapping against his chestplate. He hadn't heard her stir or approach. Atisha leans against the side of the chair and plants a messy, tender kiss on his temple. Cullen can't help but smile as he swallows a spoonful of soup. 

"Cullen," Atisha mumbles his name. Her voice is thick and gritty with sleep, but Maker if he doesn't love hearing his name from her. While he attempts to eat, she peppers the side of his face, head, and neck with sweet, sloppy kisses. She giggles a sleepy giggle when he screws up his nose and tries to lean away from the onslaught of affection for his food.

Such a cat of a man. Food first. Love later. On his terms. Atisha gives him one last kiss on the cheek and draws away from him, fingers sliding into his fur cloak with familiar ease. "It's late, ma'vhenan." She hums.

When she calls him that, Cullen's hands shake. Always do. And she only ever whispers it when it's just them. A word only for him and no one else's prying ears. Her heart. Hers. He doesn't mind it at all. Waits all day to hear it, in fact.

And with hands shaking the spoon is useless.

"I know." He tells her as he cups the soup bowl and brings it to his lips. The broth is hot and salty, and he's comfortable enough with her to eat like he's hungry. Because he is. He is hungry. Why peck like a bird when his stomach is empty and Atisha doesn't care?

Atisha hums, fingers splaying down the front of his armor as she presses herself against him. "I miss you." She murmurs, nuzzling into his cloak and breathing the smell of her commander deep. He finishes off the bowl and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. Cullen reaches for the bread easily, and greedily mops the sides of his bowl with it.

"You couldn't sleep?"

He asks before tearing into the bread ferverantly. 

"I slept a little. I missed you more." She replies softly. Something in her tone tugs at his bones.

Atisha shifts her weight and Cullen hears the distinctive 'tink' of soft metal against his armor. He knows immediately the culprit for the sound. Two lovely gold bars set with diamonds. He hazards a glance to the side. 

She's shirtless.

Oh.

Now he won't be sleeping.

Now, he can think of many other things he'd rather do than sleep. Cullen would trade one meal for the other, but she'd be upset if he didn't at least eat dinner, so he hurries himself. Bread first. Atisha second. She finds his left hand, circling around the chair to grasp it and peel off his glove. 

A bit early to be undressing, he thinks. But he is horribly overdressed. So, he lets it be. Instead, he cups her cheek with his now bare hand, revels in how warm and soft she is.

Warmer and softer elsewhere he knows all too well.

She gentle guides his hand to her lips, kissing his wrist and palm tenderly. He watches her eyes close as she finds each digit and plants kisses along every joint. Maker, this woman will undo him and he would revel in it every time. He'll never grow tired of how much she adores him.

Then, she plants a final kiss on the pad of the tip of his pointer finger, and looks up at him through her lashes. Cullen processes she's kneeling to kiss his hand. Heat rushes through his chest. Atisha's tongue flicks out to lick his finger, and just as quick, she has taken the whole digit into her mouth.

Cullen nearly chokes trying to swallow.

Atisha looks up at him through her lashes, tongue lapping at his finger. Her mouth is warm. And inviting. And Cullen hazards pulling his finger away just a little then gently thrusts it back into her mouth. Atisha makes a very small, very pleased sound at that. It goes straight to his thighs. She sucks and licks and he can think of far better things he wants to put in her mouth. Or perhaps just in her. He does like the sounds she makes, and can't hear them as well when her sweet lips are occupied.

He really should behave himself. The last time he nearly broke her in half she's so little. And fragile. And soft. And wonderfully, deliciously, tight.

And now he remembers the last time and how she sighed his name like a prayer and how his back stung with the indent of her nails for days and how she had begged and pleaded and-

He needs to stop. 

He's still thrusting his finger in and out of her mouth lazily. She's still suckling and running the textured surface of her tongue in slow waves against the underside of his finger.

"Atisha." Cullen says her name like a warning. It's late. He's had a day. And she's all too inviting. Everything logical says he should eat and sleep, and everything else says to take her like his life depends on it. When he says her name, her lashes flutter, and Cullen has lost.

He decides maybe that taking her is wiser.

Maybe not wiser.

Absolutely necessary.

He shoves the chair back, pulling his finger from her mouth with a wet 'pop'. Control, Cullen, he cautions himself. And he scoops her up. Atisha squeaks in shock at how quickly he's hoisted her up, but quickly stills, smiling wickedly at him.

"Are you sure you're an elf and not a demon of desire?" Cullen asks her. Atisha blinks innocently at him. "I thought you were the demon." She replies sweetly. Cullen rolls his eyes as he carries her back to her bed. "You are going to be the end of me, you know that." He tells her as he tosses her onto the bed. Atisha lands with a soft 'oomph', and happily watches as Cullen rips his other glove off, tossing it Maker knows where.

"I missed you," She repeats for the third time that night. "My hands aren't the same." She adds. Cullen can't seem to get the makerdamned straps of his armor unbuckled fast enough when she says that. The thought of her, writhing under her blankets with his name on her tongue and her fingers buried inside her.

And he was a short walk away.

"Show me." Cullen orders her as he tries to figure out how to gain control of his hands again. "Is that what my Lion wants? To watch?" Atisha asks playfully. Cullen figures out how to get his breastplate off again. "Don't tease, love." He replies. Instantly, the candles in the room are ablaze. The whisper of magic clings to the air. Cullen allows himself to smirk in triumph at the color on Atisha's cheeks and the look on her face.

He called her love. He never calls her that. Atisha looks up at him wide eyed and teary and Cullen leans down to kiss her while he undoes his trouser belt. "Show me." He reminds her, pressing the words into her lips.

So she does. And she makes a damn show out of it. Atisha runs the palms of her hands down her sides, nails dragging back up as she cups her own breasts. Cullen is shucking off layers faster and fast with every second, and before Atisha can finish fondling herself, he's atop her.

She squeaks in shock as he pins her, lips hot and teeth sharp against the column of her throat. Her fingers knot in his hair, one leg going over his hips to draw him closer.

She's feverishly hot, he notes, something not unusual for her when she's this worked up. Cullen licks at her throat then dares to suckle the sweet flesh there. He is rewarded with a earthy moan for his efforts. Atisha bucks into him lightly. 

She's angled herself just so to straddle his thigh. Atisha practically glides against him when she bucks up.

Maker, she's soaking.

Normally, he would take his time. Cullen is fond of her. He usually spends what feels like hours tracing every inch of her tattoos with his mouth. Usually languidly spreads her with his fingers until she begs for more. Usually kisses her breathless.

But she's so wet and the air is cold on his now slick thigh, and Atisha whimpers as she grinds against him. He is lucky he isn't a mage. Cullen doesn't think he would tell her no, even if she was in fact, a demon.

But he would like to see her squirm for it first.

Cullen grabs her hips to still her, repositioning himself between her legs easily. Atisha is flushed down to her ribs, red and breathless, pupils blown wide. Her irises are crescent moon thin, gold hoops around the midnight hue of her eyes. Atisha attempts to wriggle closer, attempts to grind against him and feel his warmth and hardness and maybe if she's lucky, slip him in.

Cullen grips her hips harder and holds her steady. She whimpers in response, biting her lip and writhing in his hold. "Behave." He growls and Atisha goes still. He watches her breath catch in her ribs with satisfaction.

His fingers find that sweet pearl easily. Cullen is so familiar with her. Familiar with her folds, and the stretch of her, and her taste. Things he enjoys. But right now, right now he enjoys the way her back arches as her eyes roll back. Right now he enjoys the feeling of her thighs twitching as he works her over. Her hand finds his wrist shortly, eyes meeting his desperately.

She's almost there.

Cullen takes pride in the efficiency of his work and the needy sounds spilling from her.

"Wait, please." Atisha interrupts, tugging at his hand. Cullen stills his fingers, but does not remove his touch. "In." Atisha chokes out as Cullen slowly, agonizingly slowly, resumes circling his thumb over her. 

What kind of gentleman could say no to a lady in need?

Cullen pulls her close, lines their hips up, and grinds against her slick. No driving himself all the way in. He doesn't want to hurt her. He needs to prepare himself and go slow. And so he does, slow long grinding to coat himself in her nectar, then a gentle push at her entrance.

Atisha unfolds for him so beautifully.

She's so hot inside it takes every ounce of willpower to not simply thrust all of himself in. 

Cullen is slow and calculated and everything hot and heavy in his stomach is telling him to rut into her like his life depends on it. He would. He knows he would. But she's biting her lip and gasping and furrowing her brow as he slowly, so agonizingly slowly, stretches her and all Cullen can think about is the time he hurt her.

Atisha had made the worst sound.

So he focuses. And she takes him to hilt sooner than he realizes. It's only painfully slow until he's in then it's all throb and soft fluttering walls, and her heels are pressed to the backs of his thighs.

Once that pull of her brow fades, Cullen knows.

And he picks a pace.

She gasps like she's been pulled from the sea, like his every movement is air she's been deprived of, and Cullen likes that more than the sounds he is ashamed to admit he makes. Maker, this woman with her halo of flame-hair, and her nails dragging sweet-sharp down his back, and the obscene sound of how slick she is with need for him, she could destroy him. He would let her. Atisha murmurs his name, occasionally leaning up to nip at the juncture of his neck and shoulder as she mumbles soft pleas and praise.

He was not aware how badly he needed to be told how good he was.

Not until Cullen was thrusting in her the first time and she had gasped, "Good boy." under her breath, and he had choked on the feeling. 

Now it is commonplace. Atisha likes to praise. She's vocal in what is good and what isn't and she guides him just so. Cullen follows the breadcrumbs of her moans, chases her to the edge, and follows her over.

Her nails split open is back with the force she grips him with. Atisha is gone and Cullen is solid, and she clings to that solidity. His teeth are in the soft meat of her shoulder, not breaking skin but deliciously sharp, as he spills inside her with soft sounds. 

Soft sounds that a man that steel sharp shouldn't be able to make, but he can, and he is surprised he can.

And when they come down from it all, she is still underneath him with gleaming eyes, and still soaking, and he is still breathing the same air as her. And something about that suits him just fine.

Atisha wasn't his first. He wasn't her first. It isn't like that. But something about her is a first for him, and he doesn't know if he likes it. Something about the way he rolls off of her, and pulls her to his chest, is new every time. Atisha settles against his heartbeat easily, tossing a leg over his. Cullen can feel his own seed gush out onto his leg and feels a twinge of satisfaction and guilt. But she curls into him and brushes sweat-damp curls from his forehead, and kisses just above his heart easily.

"Ma'vhenan." Atisha murmurs, fingers tracing patterns over his chest with ease. "Ma'sa'lath." And that's a new one. He'll ask about it later though, because his eyes are drooping and she is so warm and safe, and the night terrors seem to fear her. So he sinks into her bed, arm slung around her waist, and lets sleep take him.


	22. Chapter 22

"Mister Rutherford's lady was one of them, wasn't she, mama? One of the winged ones."

The ladies gossiping nearby go silent at the boy's inquiry. In fact, it's as if the entire chantry has fallen silent. The boy's mother is quick to ruffle his hair and shush him.

"Bran, hush."

He frowns, all freckles and early morning summer dirt. The Chantry sisters flutter by in their lovely robes and shoot disapproving looks.

"She was, though, wasn't she? Old man Smith says she was and so we should be extra nice to Mister Rutherford." Bran says to his mother. She pulls him to his side and shushes him again. "Mister Smith told you this?" She asks. The boy nods ferverantly. He points to one of the paintings on the Chantry wall. A depiction of a demon of desire, complete with wings of purple fire and robes of gold. 

"Like that, mama? That's what he said."

The woman starts.

"No, Bran-"

"Aren't you the curious young man?"

The addition of a new voice sends Bran and his mother jumping.

"Revered Mother!" His mother says by greeting, quickly bowing her head. With a pinch of her boy's arm, Bran lowers his head too. The Revered Mother chuckles in response to the boy's delayed reaction.

"Bran, tell me, what is your interest in Ser Rutherford's wife?"

The boy straightens up immediately, cheeks pink and eyes blazing with passion.

"I want to meet one of them winged ones! Mama says they're the Maker's first children, and I wanna know!"

The Revered Mother smiles.

"What would you like to know that the Chant does not already teach you?"

The boy frowns. "I guess I want to ask what it was like. The Golden City, I mean. She'd know, wouldn't she? She came from there didn't she?" He shyly toys with a loose thread on his sleeve as he says it. The Revered Mother raises an eyebrow. "Have you thought to ask Ser Rutherford? I'm sure he could make time for such a bright, devoted boy."

Bran's mother ushers her son behind her skirts.

"Revered Mother! He's a bit young for such things, isn't he?"

"Ser Rutherford was thirteen when he was called to the Maker."

"But to have my son go there with that woman-"

"That woman is one of the Maker's children. It is not our place to judge, Lina. The boy has questions, let them be answered."


	23. Chapter 23

Bran has never seen the missus. Most people haven't. She and Ser Rutherford live quietly on a little farm on the outskirts of a village here in South Reach. 

The rumors say she looks like a dragon, or a witch, or some kind of demoness.

But she's an elf. A pretty elf. With pretty red hair, and pretty, gold, shimmery tattoos. Bran doesn't know what to do with it. He sees her from the wagon. Not close enough to see if she really does have split pupils and scales and wings. 

Does she really have wings?

Mister Rutherford is a very tall man.

Bran feels very small when he approaches the wagon. He is big and tall and Bran can see how much muscle moves when he moves. No wonder people don't say mean things about the missus in front of him. This is a monster of a man. He smiles and waves, and Bran feels his heart tighten with nervousness.

"Why, miss Lina, what brings you all the way out here?" He asks. He has a very nice voice, and a very kind smile split by a scar. "Oh? And who is this young man?" Mister Rutherford asks, locking eyes on Bran. 

Mister offers his hand to Mama and helps her down from the wagon as he speaks. "Ser Rutherford, you look well. This is my son, Bran." She says as Bran hops off the wagon. He's a big boy and doesn't need any of Mister's help. "Oh! He certainly has gotten tall hasn't he?" Mama flashes a big smile. Bran puffs his chest with pride at that. He has gotten big and tall. Almost as tall as Mister, for sure.

"Long way from the village. What brings you?" Mister asks again, this time his voice lowers just a little. Mama rolls her eyes. "Bran, why don't you tell Ser Rutherford." She says and Bran nods. He steps forward, stretches up on his tippy toes, and clears his throat.

He can be a big brave man too. 

"I wanna see the winged lady." He declares. Mister's eyes widen mouth going to a small 'o'. Bran must be an impressive man to do that to Mister. Mister looks at Mama, brows drawing together, and mouth pursing. "Lina." He says like a warning. Bran clears his throat again to get the man's attention. "Not Mama. Me. I wanna see her. I have questions for her." 

Mister blinks.

Mama shrugs sheepishly.

"My wife doesn't much like questions, Bran." Mister tells him. "Well, maybe she just didn't like who asked." Bran replies. Mister rubs at the back of his neck, smiles an awkward smile at mama. "You're right. She didn't like who was asking. Lina, are you okay with this?" Mama nods. Mister exhales slowly.

"Alright, Bran, come with me." 

And Mister walks him to the field where the elf lady is watering plants. There are pups running around her feet. Bran can hear singing in a language he can't quite make out, but the tightness of his chest lessens a little. She occasionally reaches down to pet one of the pups and laughs when they lap at her fingers.

Her hair is even redder up close, and her tattoos even more shimmery. She has such pretty earthy skin, and a lovely voice and-

She does have wings.

Pretty golden wings with speckles of brown and splotches of red. Bran finds himself staring as she turns. "Cullen," A name on her breath with such lightness. Then she stops, eyes settling on Bran. The lady takes a shocked step back and nearly trips on a pup. 

Mister reaches out to steady her. Their hands find each other easily. Bran feels a lick of anger at that. Mama deserves that.

The lady looks at him with big golden eyes and Bran is not sure what to say now that he's seen her.

"Hello." She says nervously, eyes flashing from him to Mister and back. "You don't look like the painting." Bran says. There are feathers behind her sharp ears, and they flutter fanning out at the statement. Bran nearly jumps at the foreign movement. 

"Painting?" She echoes.

"The one in the Chantry?" Mister asks. "Of the demon?"

Bran bites his lip and nods.

"Oh." The lady breathes. Her wings twitch a little, feathers reflecting light like jewelry. "Cullen, who is this boy?" She asks Mister, eyes still wide and confused. 

"I'm Bran and you're the winged lady from the Golden City and I wanna know what he was like."

She blinks.

"What who was like?" She asks the child.

"The Maker. Who else?"

The feathers behind her ears fully fan and her wings shoot out behind her. Her dress flutters from the force. Those wings must be strong, Bran thinks. Mister shoots him a look like when mama tells him to shush. 

With the grace of an ex-templar, Cullen grabs her wrist right as her wings start to lift up higher. "Atisha." He says softly. "The boy doesn't know better. It's okay." She blinks at him, then looks back at Bran. Atisha's wings slowly fold back behind her.

"I don't know the Maker, I'm sorry." She tells him.

Bran deflates.

"What about the people who die? Did you meet them? Do they go to the Golden City?"

The lady frowns.

"I don't remember."

"Can you talk to them? Like mages can?"

Cullen steps forward just as Atisha shakes her head. Bran feels hot angry tears burn in his eyes. 

"They all say you have powers and can talk to the Maker and you can't?" Bran asks harshly. Atisha flinches at his tone. Cullen has a hand on his shoulder. "Bran," he cautions. Bran steps out of Cullen's touch. 

"No, Bran. I can't talk to anyone there. I'm here now." She says. He kicks the ground. What use was coming here then? Bran blinks back angry tears and tightens his hands into tight fists. Atisha's feathers shake. She tilts her head, eyes slowly closing and opening again. This time there's an unnatural glow to them. 

"He loved you very much, Bran. Let that be enough."

Her tone has shifted. The gold of her wings seems to give off a threatening glow, feathers fanning out. One of the pups bites the hem of her dress and tugs with a whimper.

"Papa?" Bran asks.

"Let it be enough." The winged lady repeats, embers on her breath. Bran topples backwards im shock landing harshly on his butt.

Cullen extends a hand to him. Bran takes it gratefully.

"It's time for you to leave young man."

He turns Bran away from Atisha. She has now collapsed to her knees, a hand covering her face. He swears he can hear sniffling as Mister Rutherford walks him back to Mama.


	24. Chapter 24

Cullen remembers the day she fell.

The whole town heard it. Felt it. A star falling in the day sky and crashing into the woods so hard the earth bucked. Mia had screamed, and he had been out the gate before he could register what he was doing.

It had been snowing.

Cullen remembers how the snow and slush sucked at his boots and slowed his speed. He remembers how the cold wrapped around his fingers and burned his cheeks. He remembers the freshness of the air and the smell of sulfur.

He remembers the gold in the snow.

The gold smeared across her body.

A woman, broken and painted gold in a crater. Flame red hair stark in contrast against snow and mud. Her limbs twisted unnaturally. The wings. He remembers her great tawny wings broken and weeping liquid gold. 

Like it was yesterday.

"Please, kill me."

Her voice had been so choked and pitiful.

Cullen had ripped his cloak from his shoulders and covered her. He doesn't remember why. He was no healer. He was a soldier. A templar. He knew she was beyond what he could do.

"You'll be alright."

He had lied. It was supposed to be a kind lie. She wasn't going to live. But still, he put her limbs straight. Even as she had howled. He had put her straight and gathered any sticks he could to make a brace. Her blood, gold and steam-hot, had left welts on his hands, had burned through his gloves. Still, he put her right.

And he had limped her home.

Mia was furious.

How could he, an ex-templar, drag a winged one to her home where her children lived? What if she was a demon? What if it invoked the ire of the Chantry?

Cullen didn't have answers.

He had told her she would be okay.

Over months he nursed her back to health, this gold-blooded winged lady who had fallen from the noon sky into his woods. It had felt so familiar. So natural. Like a gift from the Maker.

Soon, she was upright, limping across their little cottage to help clean, and stoke the fire, and stretch her legs.

"What's your name?" Cullen had asked her once she was recovered enough to speak.

"They called me Peace." She had frowned. "The word was, Atisha." 

What a name, he had thought. Peace. Of course the Maker would send a woman named Peace after all his years. After all his struggles and battles and war. 

Atisha was not like them. And yet, she was also so mortal it stung sometimes. She picked flowers with the children. She learned the Chant sung by Mia, and would harmonize with her. She tended the hounds, and weeded the fields, and seemed so mortal at times Cullen forgot the wings on her back.

She always reminded them, though.

The winged woman and her echoes. The way she could shape thoughts to words like another winged one he knew once. 

Unlike Cole, it seemed to hurt her.

"Why are you here?" Cullen asked once. Cole had been here for a reason. He had stayed to help. He was Compassion. He wanted to heal heartaches. Why was Atisha here? With them? What could Peace want in such a little sleepy town?

She had looked through him blankly.

"I don't remember." Was her answer. So concise and calm it had made gooseflesh rip up his arms. "But I cannot go back. Not anymore." She had confided in him weeks after, eyes set on the heavens and feathers sagging sadly.

That was that then. The woman was here and couldn't return. It took Mia a bit to get used to, but soon she accepted Atisha was not going anywhere. Besides, an extra pair of hands never hurt a farm. So, Atisha stayed and was kept by the Rutherfords, and had a place that wasn't home but was somewhere.

And that suited all of them just fine.


	25. Chapter 25

"What have you done?"

Cassandra asks Cullen, eyes focused on the woman standing behind him. The shock in her voice is not unnoticed. Cullen looks at her helplessly as if her demand has fallen on unknowing ears. But he is not so blissfully ignorant to not know what she means.

"Cassandra-"

The Seeker takes a step forward. Her hands are balled suspiciously tight at her side and Cullen swallows his sentence. He can feel Atisha shift behind him further. She peeks around his arm nervously. 

"A year. One year. I don't visit for one year, and you get married?"

Cullen can't help but feel she has more to be mad about. He is a bit relieved though. Cassandra could be furious about any number of stupid things, and this is the specific concern.

"You didn't even invite me to the wedding." Cassandra says, hurt flashing in her eyes. Then, she puts that hurt away. Her eyes settle on Atisha who is peeking around Cullen like he is a wall. "An angel? Maker's breath, Cullen, what are you thinking?" Cassandra finally addresses the glaring concern. The one Mia won't shut up about. The one that Cullen knows is a problem and is blatantly trying to ignore.

Atisha blinks big gold eyes, eyelashes fluttering innocently as she peers up at the Seeker.

"I suppose I was thinking that I like my wife." Cullen replies back a little too harshly. Atisha jumps at his tone before merging back to his side. Cassandra sighs. Stubborn fool man was always this way. "And the locals? How have they taken the news?"

Cullen focuses on the grass peeking around Cassandra's boots. She raises an eyebrow.

"Ah, that bad?"

Cassandra asks. Cullen says nothing. Atisha leans around him and chimes in. "I like it better out here anyways. We see more stars than they do." Cassandra starts. The woman's voice is not what she expected. She expected more power, more depth, more cosmic force. 

Atisha sounds, well, like a woman.

"Do you like the stars, Seeker Pentaghast?" Atisha asks.

Cassandra cannot help but feel it is a pointed question. Some kind of weight rests in the air waiting for her answer. Atisha steps around Cullen, and Cassandra can finally see her. Can finally see what makes up this tiny bird of a woman.

Golden and winged, she looks like a painting of the sunset. If the sunset could be easily carried off.

Cassandra clears her throat.

"Of course I have admired the stars." She says.

Atisha nods sagely.

"I miss them." She replies.

Cassandra does not know what to do with that. Cullen has been very quiet the whole time. Has let Atisha take the floor. Cassandra cannot recall the last time he let someone do that.

"Are you staying for dinner, Seeker Pentaghast?" Atisha asks. Cullen straightens up and reaches a hand out to grab Atisha's hand. Two squeezes. A question. Cassandra blinks. "We just picked the most lovely tomatoes, and any friend of Cullen's is a friend of mine." Atisha says, hands coming up to shape the size of said tomatoes. 

Cassandra turns to Cullen who is pink cheeked and awkwardly shrugs.

"I wouldn't mind staying a bit." She tells the angel. Atisha beams.


	26. Chapter 26

There are few things Atisha remember-knows about the Golden City. One, the Golden City is ancient. Two, it is not the heaven the mortals think it is. But how can she tell them that when she sees the Chantry and the murals on the walls and watches the humans wear their holy symbols so proudly?

How can she destroy this illusion?

Atisha knows that the other angels would laugh at her softness. Maybe that is why she was sent away. Maybe that is why she was cast from the stars to this odd place. 

The Golden City is ancient and is not heaven. What it is, is a nursery. A birthplace. A foci of magic and force and all. The epicenter of creation, and the void of destruction. A place where all energy is born and so too must submit in the end. It is a cauldron.

A singularity.

Not a city.

She does not tell the mortals this. Some, she suspects, know there is no glittering castle waiting in the heavens. But they do not voice it. 

What awaits is a city Blackened by Depravity.

What awaits is ashes.

Atisha is happy to be here. This, she thinks, is the real Golden City. The eyes of the man who found her are the glittering halls. His curls are the fountains of honey. His snide chuckles are the humming strings of the harps.

He is the Golden City.

Atisha does not know how to explain to the mortals that they must build their own heavens. She does not know how to explain to him that he is her salvation.  
Instead, she kisses his hands and thanks him and gives him all she can now.

She gives him the protection of one once so divine.

Let it be enough.


	27. Chapter 27

Cullen has travelled the seas before.

The first time was after Kinloch. After Fereldan. The Waking Sea is a brutal water, angry and unrelenting. He is not unfamiliar with the temperament of the ocean. Nor its denizens. 

She is oddly golden, he thinks.

Most of the Sea People glimmer, but he hasn't seen gold before. Of course, some of the ocean folk had joined the Inquisition, and so she is not the first he meets.

But it is the first time Cullen has ever met someone from so deep below.

Those who joined were lake dwellers, sea dwellers, river people, not ocean royalty.

The mountains are no place for the royals of the deep, he knows, but still the people of the sea hear the call and they come.

"I am Atisha, daughter of the great warrior Elgar'nan. The sea sends her blessing."

She had bowed to the Inquisitor, low and deep with a voice like ink. A heavy voice. A smooth voice. And how unsettling her large golden eyes with their slit pupils and second membrane. How terrible and wicked the razor teeth of her smile. How startling the glimmer of her golden scales, and the weight of her sun-red locks. And her fins. The twitch of them in the cold mountain air, and the way her gills slam shut against her neck to any breeze. 

Atisha does look something alien.

"The Inquisition welcomes you." Nehris had said with a smile.

The deeper they dwell, the more foreign they look, Cullen supposes. But if Nehris can accept the ocean's aid, so can he.

But he can't help if his skin crawls. Can't help if he stares. When she splays her hands just so, he can see her veins in the near transparent golden webbing between each digit. When she talks, her voice rumbles two tones, one high and one low. Her laugh is smooth and grating all at once. Her scales throw the light all wrong. He cannot help if he stares. 

Atisha is unlike any of the water dwellers he's known.

"Commander, your Ambassador is preoccupied. Is there a place I could wet my scales?" She asks him as he finished drills with the recruits. Cullen nearly jumps out of his skin at her approach. Silent. The whisper of rain on distant stones. 

Cullen blinks. She gestures to her gills, clamped tight to her throat. "The air is so dry here. I'm afraid I am less accustomed to the surface than my distant cousins, and is so hard to breathe." She explains. "If I could, a bit of a salt and a basin deep enough to cover them would do. Just to dampen my gills a little."

He freezes. He isn't proud of it, but he does, because how could they overlook something so obvious?

Atisha smiles sheepishly and Cullen is reminded of her painfully sharp teeth. 

"Of course, I'll send word to the kitchens immediately. They'll bring a basin to your quarters." He manages to sound collected enough. Her smile turns genuine. "Thank you, Commander. I apologize again. It seems the mountain and I mutually disagree."

"It's fine. It should be expected. Even the others dip their fins a few times a day."

"Indeed." She replied with a bit of amusement.

A few weeks later they spoke again.

"Have you been to the sea, Commander?"

He had not known what to do with the question. No. That's not it. He had not known what to do with the longing in the way she said 'sea'. And so he was honest. 

"A few times. Mostly on business. I never stayed long."

Atisha sighs like a bucket being poured onto gravel. 

"She is my great love, my home. I've never been away from the waves, never left Ocean's Heart. Do you have a home waiting for you to win this war too, Commander?"

He thinks of Mia. Thinks of South Reach. Thinks of Kirkwall and the blood on his hands, and the letters his nephew sends. Cullen knows he cannot go to his family. He will never retire. He is a warrior to the bone. 

"I think all that will wait for me is another war, Atisha."

She frowns, fins drooping.

"What a world where good men are called to the hardest of duties." Atisha says, voice splitting worse than usual. His ears ring. "May your duty be done and buried one day." Atisha spits. "And may yours." He says back.

And maybe he understands her better. Maybe he is not so unlike this woman who just wants to find peace. But he is not so young and foolish to think it is that easy. 

"When this is over, Commander, I hope you get to see the sea."

And he thinks that he has already seen the sea in her, and heard the waves in her footsteps, and known the hurricanes in Atisha's laugh.

"Yes. I think I'd like that."


	28. Chapter 28

"Maker! Forgive me!"

Cullen throws his hand over his eyes and turns away instantly.

Atisha blinks at him. She is knelt in the Inquisitor's chambers, a basin of salted water in front of her. Clutched in her hand is a linen soaked in the water. It streams down her arm. Where the rivulets damped her skin, her scales almost seem to glow.

It isn't the fact that she's patting the water on her scales that unsettles Cullen.

It's the fact that her shirt is missing and she is dampening those scales, specifically, on her neck and chest.

Inquisitor Nehris falls out of her desk chair laughing at the man's instant reaction. Atisha re-dips the rag and brings it to her collar, sighing as her skin drinks the water eagerly. 

"I wasn't aware you were up here, Lady Atisha." Cullen stammers by explanation. "I'll come back later."

"It's fine." Atisha replies instantly, continuing to dampen her fins as needed. Nehris is nearly wheezing. "Cullen," She gasps with laughter. "You're red as an apple." 

Cullen clears his throat in a way he hopes is dignified. 

It just serves to amuse the Inquisitor.

Atisha rolls her eyes. Surfacers. "What the Inquisitor means to say is, hello Commander what brings you?" Atisha states. Cullen is facing the door completely at this point listening to the dunk of the cloth and the swipe of it across her scales. Smooth glowy scales. On her chest. Golden and glittering and the soft curve of her imprinted in his brain.

No. He's better than that. Cullen focuses his eyes on the wood of the door and tries to ignore that he's just seen the breasts of a guest of the Inquisiton.

His thoughts aren't making a good case for himself. Cullen counts himself lucky the ocean dwellers don't read minds. He imagines she might be quite offended where his brain keeps leading him. Cullen stamps the thoughts of her scales and softness and curves down. He was here for a reason, right? Right. He focuses, and speaks.

"I, ah, Inquisitor we've just received word from the Frostbacks. Our men are sorting through what remains of Haven."

Nehris is still trying to get her breath, but the mention of Haven silences her immediately. She sucks down a breath. Atisha freezes. The women lock eyes. Haven. Nasty business. 

Atisha drops the cloth in the basin. She unfolds, rising to her feet with such elegance that Nehris is rendered almost breathless. The light from the windows throws off her scales leaving her a woman glittering gold. Nehris's mouth goes dry.

Cullen is still looking at the door, and that is a tragedy Nehris thinks. Because she has never seen a sea dweller with such grace as Atisha.

And Atisha crosses the room, easily snagging her shirt from the corner of Nehris's desk.

"What did they find, Commander?" She asks for Nehris because the Inquisitor is focused on Atisha's fingers, long and webbed and golden, buttoning her shirt with ease. "Nothing we didn't already expect. We are gathering bodies now." Cullen replies.

"Yes, proper funerals." Atisha agrees.

"How long will it take?" Nehris chimes in.

"I'm not sure. Until I have a proper count I won't have an estimate." Cullen tells the women.

Atisha finishes her last button. She glides across the room and settles a hand on the doorknob. Cullen visibly jumps at her sudden presence. She's so close he can smell the salt on her. He can feel the coolness of her breath. He almost stumbles back. Luckily, it turns into something resembling intentional as he steps away from her.

"I apologize for unsettling you, Commander. I'll take my leave."

"It's no trouble at all, really, Atisha. You're welcome anytime." Nehris calls from across the room. Atisha turns to flash her a toothy smile. "Thank you, Inquisitor." And she departs the Inquisitor's quarters, leaving Nehris and Cullen to their duties.


	29. Chapter 29

Atisha does not understand these people.

The past week it has rained in Skyhold every day. The ground has been rendered a muddy wreck, bootprints churning the earth to pools of squelching muck. The surfacers scurry from doorway to doorway like rats. The vast majority wear hoods, or hold items over their heads to avoid the rain.

She does not get it.

The rain is welcome to the sea people. Their scales itch less. Their lungs ache less. Atisha's throat feels a bit more right. Less scratchy. She had been able to walk outside without the intense displeasure of the surface sun bearing down on her. Atisha had been something closer to comfortable on this mountain for once since she arrived. 

Then it had stopped and the wretched sun came back out, and so Atisha had retreated back into her quarters to try and retain some of the moisture in her skin.

And yet through the window.

In the gardens.

The Inner Circle of the Inquisition is throwing down blankets over the soaked earth, and are sitting in the sun. Laughing. Eating. Sharing drink and mirth and soaking in the sunbeams and-

Why does she feel so lonely?

Nehris lays across Iron Bull's lap tossing grapes up at him. Occasionally he snaps one out of the air and swallows it down. Dorian has dried out the place he rests with flame magic and is sprawled out, all angles and glimmer and a bottle of wine resting lazy at his thigh. Josephine so delicately plucks food from the spread and pops it into her mouth chewing carefully and struggling to not openly grin.

And Atisha is in her room with itching scales and burning lungs and eyes so dry they sting. Watching. Witnessing. She is so awful. Bitterness floods her at their mirth.

She misses home. She misses her people, and the ocean, and the way they made her smile. She misses what these surfacers have.

"They wouldn't say no." Cole's voice is like the sea at night. Cold and unforgiving and so hungry. His hand is clammy on her own, long fingers icy against her webbing. "They would understand. I know you don't want them to. I'm sorry." He whispers, wisping about her room haphazardly.

"You should be with them." She tells him and already her voice is gummy and strained.

"I should be where I am needed." Cole replies. It is startlingly logical for him. Straight forward.

Atisha turns from the window.

She prefers the indoors. It is cooler. And she isn't far from a well here. She can fetch water and soak her scales and not have to be in sunlit picnics laughing with reckless abandon. It is safer. Wiser.

"I am here for a reason." She says more to herself than to him. Cole just turns watery eyes on her and frowns. "More than purpose." He says back. "Pounding, pouring, thoughts that cling. It doesn't have to hurt." 

Atisha frowns. Yes, it does. Because she will go back to the sea when she is done and so she should not love these people. She should not be jealous. She will not be.

"Like spring flowers. Enjoy the season." Cole tells her.

Atisha does not understand. Maybe she doesn't have to.


	30. Chapter 30

It begins with tolerance.

Maybe it doesn't end there, but it has to start somewhere. 

Cullen tolerates his unease around Atisha and her webbed fingers and sharp teeth. Atisha tolerates the oddities of the sun-walkers and the way his stare reminds her how foreign she is.

And maybe that's enough.

They don't speak. Why would they? She is just an ambassador of sorts, and the Inquisition is packed with dignitaries representing their people. Atisha is just another noble ally. Just another house trying to take their pick of the Inquisiton's meat.

But actions speak louder.

The Commander avoids the sea dwellers. They unsettle him. Make his skin crawl. These people look too similar to the things he has seen in the past. With their scales and fins and webbing and filmy eyes. He does his best to stomach it and move on. They are not like him and he is trying to be compassionate and understanding.

But they look too much like an apprentice begging a monster for gills to make it across Calenhad.

Too much like the outcome.

Tolerance, he reminds himself, and vigilance. Because these are not abominations. They are not twisted mage children who have sold their flesh for a chance to sink below the lake's waves. They are different. They are their own. He will still watch. He can't help it if they look like his nightmares.

Atisha does not like that the Commander does not meet her eyes. Sometimes, they cross paths, and he will offer a polite 'hello'. But he never meets her eyes. Atisha will return the favor. A kind 'hello' or 'good day'. And she will hunt for his eyes, and once again come up empty.

And maybe that is tolerance. Maybe tolerance is the fact that he bothers with feigned greetings, and she pretends to not be insulted. Maybe it is the Commander stamping out any unkind comments. Atisha has heard the things they call her people. Algae-eater, salt-wench, scale-neck. Things the Commander doesn't allow. Whether it is concern or pride, it does not matter. It is tolerance of her people.

And by extension-

Maybe they aren't destined to talk or be close confidants or to share meals together. Maybe their paths won't cross. Maybe they belong to seperate worlds.

Tolerance is enough.

Atisha swallows down the way she looks at him from afar, soaks her scales, and waits for the waves to call her back. This, his 'hello' and her 'good day' and the way they do not look into each other's eyes, this is more than she could ask of a surfacer.

This is enough.

So, why does the spirit follow her about so sadly?

When did Atisha start to watch the sunrise?

This is not her world. This is not the gentle luminescence of the jellyfish and the algae and the stars in the waters above. This is not the way her fins glow red and gold in the dark. This world is bright and unforgiving and her eyes sting and her lungs burn and-

She sees him, sun-hair and gemstone eyes, and Atisha wonders if the ocean knows what it is missing. 

Would her father understand? Would her people?

It starts with tolerance. What it ends with is something she doesn't have words for.

"Depthless yet sinking. Weightless yet crushing. A different measure of brightness. Moonlight distortion and sunlight through seaglass. She does not understand why her footsteps stay." When Nehris asks about Atisha, this is what Cole has to say. The spirit is sad when he says. "She is not meant to leave footprints in the sand, but she wants to."

Nehris does not ask again.

Atisha takes to watching the sunrise. Sometimes, when the weather has been more on the damp side, she climbs the battlements and tries to see where the sun comes from. 

She will not stay forever. So, she has to drink in every beautiful thing that lives on this surface. She has to learn every hue the sun can cast on the clouds. Atisha has to listen to how these people sing, and laugh, and howl their battlecries. Once this war is over, she will never return.

It is simply how it has to be.

Maybe she loves it here. Maybe deep down somewhere she doesn't want to admit exists in her, she wants to stay. So, what? Who wouldn't want another sunrise when the clouds burst with color? Who wouldn't want to stay and watch the humans bake bread and laugh? Who wouldn't want to hear their strange snorting laughter?

But the people of the sea do not get to be surfacers. They do not get to cut off their fins and carve away their gills and de-scale. They belong to the ocean. Atisha knows this. She will love this world she has been allowed to see and nothing more.

And that too, is a kind of tolerance.


	31. Chapter 31

Atisha has slung her legs over the arm of the desk chair and is lounging languidly when Cullen walks in arms brimming with sheafs of paper.

"Lady First?" He asks by greeting.

She is at his desk. In his chair. In his office. 

Normally, he is patient with her antics. But today his head is pounding. It feels as if his skull is splitting behind his eyes, and frankly, he doesn't have the patience.

"Commander." She replies. Atisha examines her nails, freshly oiled and lacquered in a lovely pearl color. What a carefree gesture, he thinks. Cullen sets his documents down and presses a hand to a particularly tender spot on the side of his head. Atisha flicks her fingers and the throb of that spot is replaced with a cool tingle.

"What do you want?" Cullen feels a twinge a guilt at how angry it comes across. After all, she just soothed him a little. He knows it is an act of kindness, and yet he wants to toss her out the door.

He wants-

Needs-

Maker, he can hear it singing in the cupboard. Screaming. His veins ache. Cullen can't help how his mouth goes cotton dry. He can't help the desert he is. Lyrium is the rain. Lyrium would end the drought in his bones and the throb of his skull and the ache of his joints.

"I wanted to see you." Atisha replies very quietly after a moment. Cullen has to strain to hear. The rush of his own blood is so loud. The song is louder. He stumble-clutches the desk and glares. Atisha does not move from his chair, does not look at him.

He wishes she would. She should see what he is. This is what he is. A mess. A disaster. An addict. Maybe he should see her for what she is. Maybe he needs to stop seeing Atisha, and start seeing the First of the Sun.

"Rough meeting?" Atisha asks. Maker, how she mocks him. She knows exactly what ails him. Yet, she sits there and oogles her nails and doesn't look at him. Cullen looks at her, really looks at her. 

He has missed too much, he realizes. The kohl she lines her eyes with is smeared carelessly. Underneath her eyes are bruised a dusky purple. Atisha is gaunt. When was it she became so drained? When did he miss that? They share the same bed, the same meals, how could he miss this?

"Yes, rough meeting. Difficult choices."

"Indeed. What is an Inquisition without an Inquisitor?" Atisha says back. Cullen winces at the bitterness. The weight.

"Atisha," He begins. Something about him saying her name cracks the cool demeanor. Cullen halts when he sees her lip wobble. He reaches towards her. Like there isn't a desk in the way. Like there isn't an ache in the way. She curls towards the back of his chair, doesn't look to him.

"What did you decide?" She asks. Her voice echoes oddly from the chair. The room is heavy. Cullen sucks in a breath, feels like his lungs will pop. "We didn't. It's not our choice. It's hers." Atisha nods. He can hear the choked sound she makes. Sees her shoulders tremble. "Am I under arrest, Commander?"

There it is.

The conundrum.

Cassandra had pushed for it. How could Atisha have not known? Of course she knew who Solas was. Of course she knew what the Anchor was. Atisha is guilty. They all know it. With Nehris on her deathbed, something must be done.

And yet.

How could they? Atisha had fought at Nehris's side. She had chosen a shemlen lover. She had thrown away everything. How could they blame her for the actions of her uncle? She had fought. She had bled. She had held Nehris in her arms and wailed and used everything she had to keep the Inquisitor alive. Cullen had pushed back against Cassandra as hard as he could. But a man is nothing in the face of a Seeker.

Cullen sighs. There's ugliness to the truth. He watches Atisha's shoulders tense. Finally, he tells her what he told Cassandra.

"Not if you stay with me."

Atisha stiffens.

"Then you are to be my shackles."

"I'm sorry."

"That's cruel, ma'vheraan."

He teads his fingers through the tangles of his curls. "I know." Cullen hisses. He knows prisons well. He knows cruelty well. This is the kindest he could be. The tension drains from Atisha. She clutches the back of his chair in some kind of embrace. It breaks something in his chest to see her so small and fragile.

"I never wanted this." She murmurs voice thick with grief. A whisper of a sound. Anything louder will crack. Maker, his head hurts hearing her. "They're saying Tranquility." Atisha hisses. Cullen barely hears it, but it sends his veins alight. "Tranquil don't lie." She mumbles.

"Who said that?"

"Skyhold. Cole told me."

Cullen keeps his nails trimmed short. They still manage to puncture the inside of his fist he's clenched his hand so hard. 

"They go through me first." Cullen snarls. Atisha's shoulders droop. She melts into the car, curling in on herself like a candle wick burning out. "Ir abelas. I should never have come here. It was a mistake to send me. Father should have sent Eralath. She was always the smarter one."

Cullen crosses the room. He settles on the ground by the chair. The creak of the wood is almost comforting. A familiar sound. Usually it is Atisha settled by him leaning against his legs while he works. Odd.

"I'm glad it was you." Cullen says. 

He can't fix it. He knows that. But her hand falls over the arm of the chair anyways and he gladly leans his head into her touch. Atisha silently strokes his curls. She swallows down the urge to wail like a spoilt child. She huffs. Cullen rolls his eyes. Such a cat this woman. So fussy.

"I don't imagine I would get along with your sister, Atisha. I mean it. I'm glad it was you."

"Everyone gets along with Eralath." Atisha mutters.

Cullen reaches a hand over to squeeze the back of her leg. 

"I don't love Eralath." Cullen points out. Atisha sniffles. She shifts in the chair and it creaks. "We'll figure this out, Atisha. When Nehris wakes up, we'll talk to her. Just, stay with me until then."

"And risk mutiny?" Atisha pouts. "I'm not asking you to put yourself in danger, vhenan."

Cullen snorts. "The most danger I'm in is Sera poisoning my pastries."

Atisha peeks over the chair at him, watery eyed and skeptical. He smiles up at her. She bites her lip.

"Even the ones wanting to make me Tranquil?"

Cullen's smile fades.

"I hear anyone throw that idea around, and I will relieve them of their life. The Inquisition is not the Order. We do not make that decision. Only Nehris has that right." He says seriously. 

Atisha nods.

"Now come down from there?" Cullen asks. Atisha nods more ferverantly and crawls from the chair into his lap. She is all bone and tremble, and Cullen would, will, kill anyone who tries to give her the brand.


	32. Chapter 32

"Knight-Captain by age twenty? Impressive." Atisha comments as they are cleaning out debris from one of the guest rooms. Atisha's force magic is keeping the roof up while soldiers swarm to set up proper supports. Cullen groans at her comment. The sound is barely noticable among the work. He continues dragging out rotting wood.

"It seems gossip is unavoidable." Cullen grunts as he tosses more wood out into the main hall for disposal. He dusts off his gloves, and dives back in. Atisha hums, refocuses her magic as structures are put in place by other mages then secured with nails by soldiers.

Explains a lot. Mostly about him being such a boring hardass. Knight-Captain. Explains the nervousness of the other mages. The looks. The strictness. 

Cullen kicks aside more wood to recover some of the old banners that haven't rotted too badly. He seems to visibly fluff up like an irate housecat.

"Varric told me. Said you got your scar from a recruit too." Atisha tells him.

Cullen audibly groans this time.

"Of course he did." He spits bitterly.

"Tell me the story?"

"You and all Skyhold? No. Besides, you should be focusing. I'd rather not be flattened by an unsteady foundation simply because you're curious about my disfigurement."

Atisha rolls her eyes. She focuses a barrier around Cullen in response. He can imply her soft of focus all he likes, but Atisha is a mage of talent. She can hold this floor. She can hold him, too. She could hold this whole fortress if it came down to it. 

Besides, she doesn't like the word he used. Disfigured. Like he's some kind of uncomfortable to look at. Atisha dislikes that immensely. If he thinks that scar didfigures him, what must he see in her vallaslin? Her full body ritual scarring and tattooing. What must he think of the victims of Haven? 

Cullen shoots her a look as the tingle of her magic sets upon his skin. Atisha wrinkles her nose at the way his eyes narrow. Of course he doesn't trust her. She's an ally. An ambassador. Atisha did not kneel before Nehris and swear an oath. She is here, in Skyhold, at the behest of her father. If it was up to Atisha, she would have retuened home after Haven fell. It is an embarrassment her people have asked her to stay. The Dales should solve this Corypheus problem themselves.

"So, you'd tell me if we were alone?" Atisha pries. Cullen scoffs. "Not likely." Cullen tells her. He glances up the scaffolding. Soldiers and a few mages are securing the last few logs and timber in place. Skyhold has a lot of work before it will be a fortress worthy of them. Cullen intends to see to the repairs personally if he must. 

"Looks good up here, Commander!" Rylen shouts.

"Right. Lady First?" Cullen asks turning back towards her. Atisha pulls back her magic slowly. She allows the stone to weigh on the supports, feels the heft of it in her mana. Slowly. Very slowly. If they have missed a spot. If they have misjudged. She will not be responsible for flattening those people. 

After it is clear that it will hold, enchantments and nails and wood, Atisha releases her grip fully.

"If you won't tell me, I'll have to ask Varric." Atisha says, voice lilting with mirth. Cullen looks absolutely horrified when she says that. "You wouldn't." He says, voice thick with shock. "I would, Knight-Captain." Atisha teases. Cullen is absolutely beside himself at that. "You can't believe a word he says. He wouldn't know!" Cullen shoots back. "Wouldn't he?" Atisha asks.

Cullen glares. Then he sighs.

"Fine. My office. Walk with me."

Atisha swallows back her victorious grin. She's wanted to know the story since she saw him first. Who would split this man's smile? Why? What did Cullen do? Atisha is sure he deserved it. Cullen is not the most tactful man, after all.

Cullen stalks ahead of her bristling at the shoulders.

"Maker-damned dwarf and his Maker-damned mouth." Cullen mutters under his breath.

They walk in tense silence to the room Cullen has claimed as his office. It's oddly empty. Filled with rotting wood. Atisha watches dust float about lit like snowflakes from the light pouring through the ceiling. Cullen sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose.

"The door." He orders. Atisha closes the door behind her. The movement sends flurries of dust dancing through the air. Cullen paces forward, looks at the wall. 

"You want the full story?" Cullen asks after a pause. 

"If you would."

Cullen sighs.

"Very well. It was a disagreement with a recruit. Ser Carver."

Atisha blinks. Cullen is looking down at his hands intently. He flexes his fingers slowly. Atisha can't help but focus on the way the leather crinkles against Cullen's knuckles.

"Carver is the brother of The Champion." Cullen clarifies.

"Serah Hawke?" Atisha asks.

"The very one. The youngest girl is a mage. A warden. Well, he had an older sister too. Oldest actually. Marian."

"Yeah, I've heard of her."

"Right. Well, when he was in the Order, rumors started to spread about Marian. That she was a mage too, just like the Warden Hawke. Well, I brought it to Ser Carver's attention."

Oh. Cullen chuckles to himself, fingers coming to his scar gently. His eyes are distant. Lost. Atisha misses home often. Maybe that is what Kirkwall was. Maybe that is why he doesn't talk about it. Cullen's fingertios press a little into his lip then come back down to his side.

"Edge of his gauntlet caught on me, ripped deep. I suppose I shouldn't have put his sister's name in my mouth, but it was my job as Knight-Captain."

The gauntlet? Atisha can picture the blood. She can smell the iron. Taste the copper. It must have burned something awful. A part of her pictures the Commander, blood pouring over his glove as he presses the back of his hand to his mouth. Atisha dismisses the thought quickly. 

Atisha blinks. Cullen seems oddly fond of this memory for a man who thinks himself disfigured. Then comes the obvious question. He didn't have to be scarred. He was the Knight-Captain.

"You were in a Circle. Couldn't you have had a healer fix it?"

Cullen blinks.

"And ruin Carver's point? No. Carver was right. I should have shut my mouth, minded myself. Kept it to remind myself to mind my mouth." He says. Atisha nods. It's a good story. "Satisfied?" Cullen asks pointedly. Atisha shrugs. "Varric would have told it better." Cullen huffs, folds his arms tight over his chest. "Varric wasn't there. Anything he told you would have been silly rumors at best."

They are quiet for a moment after that. Atisha takes in the dust floating about Cullen's head like a halo. The gleam of gold and auburn in each curl lighting up under the sun. She drinks in every inch of the room. The rotting wood in rich deep hues, the mud on the floorboards, the little window offering fresh air and birdsong. 

"What about you? I heard the Dalish nobility don't wear those." He's talking about her vallaslin. Now it is Atisha's turn to run her fingers along the marks on her face. "It's not a good story." Atisha tells him. Cullen raises a brow. "What is it you said? You should have minded your mouth?" Atisha asks bitterly. "Well, we are more alike than you thought, Commander." She finishes. If Cullen seeks to pry, he swallows down the urge. Atisha is grateful for that.

"Wish mine was golden." Cullen jokes if a bit tastelessly. Atisha laughs. Of course he does. "Yours looks like it hurt less, though." Atisha tells him. Cullen shrugs. He'll give her that one. "Tell me?" He asks. 

Atisha supposes that is fair. After all, she pushed him to tell.

"Wouldn't take Dirthamen's son as ma'sa'lath. Father disapproved."

"Your, ah, what?"

Atisha blinks. Right. Humans don't do that.

"Among nobility we get to choose the first marriage. That one is for love. The others are for duty. Well, Dirthamen's youngest chose me, but I didn't choose him. Father didn't like me turning it down."

"I'm afraid I don't understand what that has to do with tattoos." Cullen admits.

Atisha picks her way across the debris ridden ground to lean next to the window. The air is fresh and cool and she is grateful for it.

"Vallaslin are devotion. They show servitude. Father wanted to make it clear that I belong to the will of Elgar'nan. That I don't get to embarrass him like that again. It was public, my vallaslin, all of the Sun Citadel was there I'm certain." Atisha stares past the mountains. For a moment she swears she can hear the hushed whispers of her people again. The chants. The cheers as her blood hit the marble. As they replaced her flesh with those markings. Atisha shakes the memory away from her lest she be sick. "Father and the other Evanuris told our People I had chosen the path of devotion. That I had chosen the markings to show I would be a First that serves." She can feel Cullen shift his weight. Hears the wood creak. Her ears twitch at the sound. "That's," Cullen begins. Atisha puts a hand up to stop him. There's pity in that tone, and she doesn't need it. She's heard it all before. Eralath, with sad eyes. Suledin, with rage in his throat. Rhaea, with shame and trembling hands as she bandaged her baby. Father, Revas, as he wept alone behind the bedroom door. "Not as good a story, I know." She replies.

"Thank you for telling me it." Cullen tries again. Atisha shrugs. "It isn't a secret back home. I suppose I forgot that here people don't know." She says instead. Cullen supposes that's fair. Atisha leans an arm out the window. It is bitter cold against the stone, but she doesn't mind it too terribly. Cold is refreshing. 

"I should go soon. They'll need help with reinforcing the dungeons next." Atisha reminds Cullen. She hears him suck in a breath. He had forgotten they were working before the exchange of scar stories. "Right. It was dungeons next? I thought stables." Atisha feels a smile creep up on her. The Commander is excellent with details of battle and fortifications, but carpentry? Not his forte. Nor is the bustle of making said repairs. He is far more skilled delegating those who would be good with said repairs.

"It's dungeons." She confirms. Cullen nods sheepishly. 

There's always something demanding attention in a fortress like this, after all.


	33. Chapter 33

"Bull, is it true that your people stitch mages' mouths shut when their magic comes in?" Atisha asks. They are seated in the tavern. Her on thr arm of his chair, held upright by Bull's steady hand on her side. The Chargers shoot each other looks that scream 'bad question' but Atisha ignores it.

Bull curses.

He then finishes off his tankard of Creators know what.

"Yeah, 'Sha, we do." Bull says with a finality. His tone says 'conversation over drop it'. Atisha leans against his arm, peers up at him. 

"Did you ever?"

Bull's eye flicks down to meet her gaze. 

"Why are you asking?" He says very level for a man being asked an awful question.

"Curiousity."

"Bullshit. Why are you really asking?"

Atisha doesn't break their gazes. She tilts her head. "Want to know what you're capable of. Most people's monsters are so visible. You hide well." Bull nods, breaks his gaze to hand his tankard off to Grim. Grim turns towards the bar, mug in hand. 

"Okay. Yeah. Was a time where I thought I'd be a good Educator. Wasn't for me."

Atisha nods. It doesn't surprise her like it should. Bull has a good heart. Even if he believes it's right, pain is something else. Pain and children. 

Grim brings back Bull's mug, full and frothy.

"What's worse? Tranquility, or what the Qun does?" Bull asks her now. Atisha blinks. She cannot imagine being bound like that. Cannot imagine losing her feelings either.

After a moment of chewing her lip in thought she tells Bull,

"I think that depends on the mage. At least sewn and bound I still have my dreams. But Tranquil," Atisha thinks about Eralath, and Mamae, and Father, and Suledin. "To never understand why someone looks at you like you are breaking them by breathing. That sounds awful."

Bull grunts in response. 

Atisha had never thought about it. But both are terrivle fates, she supposes. At least in the Qun they kill mages who cannot control themselves. They don't make those mages live a life empty. 

But on the other hand.

Tranquility allows for life still. Empty though it might be, Tranquil mages don't worry. They aren't beset with fear. It is a peaceful, empty existence.

"What do your people do about mages who lose control?" Bull asks. Atisha's ears twitch. That's, quite the question.

"What do you do with any man who harms his own?" Atisha asks. Bull nods. The Dalish simply execute. Magic is not specifically more dangerous simply because it is magic. It is a weapon. The same as any blade or bow. Any who turn a weapon wrongly must face consequences. 

"Wonder if that's really less barbaric. Executions for anyone who kill."

Atisha shrugs.

"No one wants to pay to keep a murderer fed their whole life. It isn't a good solution. There are no good solutions." She tells Bull. He cracks a smile. "Yeah, I'll drink to that." He tells her. "To no good solutions, and a whole lot of bullshit choices."

"To no good solutions." Atisha repeats. And they drink.


	34. Chapter 34

Cullen's people return from the raid victorious and laden with loot. Which is the result more often than not. His tribe is the strongest in miles, and it is known. Do not test the Lion. Do not camp near the Pride. Do not speak ill of the spirits lest the Lion's shaman hear you.

Well known things in the area.

Cullen adjusts in his throne as his people parade offerings through. Woven cloth, pelts, leather, handmade jewelry, a well-loved staff, meats and pastries. All things won in the raid. 

A lack of captives, he notices. Save for one. An elf girl. Samson brings her as offering. Unusual for him. Samson has never had the stomach for hostages like this. Not like the rest of the Pride.

Her hair is a wild tangle of blood and soot, but is still noticeably flame red. Cullen notes the gold markings on her face and skin. The same mark of the clan who had been camping on his land, stealing his people's food. The woman is lithe, tiny for an elf even, so slight of build Cullen isn't sure she is in fact a grown woman. That makes his stomach flip, if only a little. His eyes settle on the collar easy. Witch-blood.

The first thing Cullen notices is the girl has been battered good. Bruised and cut, a throbbing split lip that threatens to reopen with the wrong breath. Her hands. Cullen feels a wave of anger with his own men to see that the elf's fingers have been broken and her hands smashed. Each digit swollen and black, bone protruding from the ring finger of her right hand and oozing black blood.

The second thing he notices, 

She does not fear him.

This elf looks into his eyes and does not falter even as she is dragged by ropes wrapped around her mangled hands and wrists. Her eyes are sun-gold, bright and piercing. She draws her bloodied lip back, reopening the wound in the process, and snarls. The blood pinkens where it runs down her teeth.

"Was this the only survivor?" Cullen finds himself asking. The elf's ears twitch, growl forming low in her throat. Samson tugs the rope. There's a sickening pop as it pulls on one of her broken fingers. The growl is replaced by a swallowed whimper. She does not look away even then. Her eyes are hot with tears and angry and she stares into Cullen as if challenging him to come and kill her.

"Aye. This one made sure of it. Careful, Chief, she's witch-blooded."

Samson gestures to the dampening collar they've put around her neck as he says it. Cullen nods. He had seen that. He's not stupid.

"And her hands?"

Samson has the decency to look a little guilty.

"Had to keep her magic still while we got the collar on."

Ah. Broken hands broken spells. Cullen nods again. The hall is quiet. So far, he has accepted most offerings only turning away food to those who need it more. The question in the air, will he accept this one?

If he doesn't accept.

Cullen knows Samson won't keep a hostage. He'll hand her off to whoever wants her. As Chief it is his responsibility to keep those under the Pride's protection safe. Raid prize or not.

He chews his lip as he considers.

The elf takes a step forward, teeth exposed once more in open threat. Samson tugs the rope in response. She hisses half in pain half in rage.

"She's got a bit of fire, Chief." He comments. There's a challenge there. 'Can you tame the elf?'

Cullen loves challenges.

"Well, bring her here then." Cullen replies.

And Samson all but drags the woman spitting blood and hissing across the room. She digs her heels in hard and snaps her teeth and fights.

The elves always fight, Cullen knows. It's instilled in them. Die before surrender. Bleed before bowing. They are fighters at heart. He can admire that, respect it.

Samson hands him the end of the rope. 

The elf pulls back hard as she is handed off. Cullen finds himself leaning forward to keep his grip tight. He pulls back fast and hard, and is surprised at the guilt when she flinches. Broken hands and rough rope.

They don't usually take captives. The Lion's Pride usually takes recruits. They take prisoners for interrogations occasionally. Cullen doesn't quite know what to do with this.

But he'll figure it out.


	35. Chapter 35

"Hey, angel-face, where'd you put the honey?"

Atisha shout-asks across the house.

"Above the fridge." Cullen replies without thinking.

At the same time, Bull asks, "Angel-face?"

If Cullen could die right now he would. Because Bull is grinning at him, eye twinkling. Distantly, he hears Atisha dragging a chair to reach above the fridge. Distantly, Cullen hears the bubbling of the kettle.

"Domestic life suits you well." Cassandra tries. 

It does not help.

Cassandra and Bull are sitting in Cullen's living room, and he wants nothing more than to escort them to the door. He wasn't the one who invited them in. He watches Cassandra reach across the coffee table for a pastry. She selects one of the cupcakes Atisha has made. Chocolate with bright green paper and blue frosting.

It's oddly hilarious. Cassandrs Pentaghast, peeling back the paper of a cupcake to take a bite. Such a delicate action for such a battering ram of a woman.

"So, how are you?" Bull asks.

Atisha comes dancing out of the kitchen with a tray of steaming mugs in hand as he asks it. Cullen subconciously reaches out to steady her. She always bumps into the edge of the couch if he doesn't.

"I'm doing just fine, Bull." Cullen says as he makes space for Atisha. The elf sets the tray on the table and begins dispersing mugs.

"Coffee for Bull," She hands him a purple mug painted with bluebells. "Camomile for Cassandra," A blue mug with a cat. "Hibiscus for Cullen." A mug shaped like a mabari.

Cullen mentally groans at how kind the action is. She bought the mug for him shortly after their first tiff. Before they were they. Back when she was Atisha and he was Cullen and the two of them couldn't understand what possessed them to prod each other so ruthlessly.

Atisha plops down on the couch next to Cullen and snags the honey bear from the tray.

"Did Bull tell you the Chargers have a new job in the capital?" She asks as she pours a laughable amount of honey in Cullen's mug.

"He didn't, no." Cullen replies. This time he is genuinely intrigued. "What's the job?" Cullen asks. Bull sips his coffee, shoots Atisha a thumbs up. "Ah, it's nothing big. Recovering Inquisition property from a few well known folk there."

"When you say recovering you mean stealing." Cassandra says.

"More like repossessing." Bull replies.

Atisha is delighted at the prospect of the Chargers robbing royalty. Her ears vibrate happily. Cullen can feel his head beginning to pound. The Inquisition has been disbanded. They can't be going around robbing people.

Atisha settles Cullen's mug in his hand. It's warm and soothing and he still feels the twinge of worry.

"Vhenan, he hasn't even told you the best part and you're already green." She murmurs. 

This is not reassuring.

Bull looks absolutely overjoyed.

"Guess who hired us?"

Cullen feels the blood drain from his face. The mug is the only stable thing in the world.

"Nehris." Bull declares. His laugh booms across the room rattling Cullen's ribs.

"Oh, just kill me now." Cullen mutters. Atisha claps joyfully. Cassandra focuses on selecting a second cupcake. They'll never let him peacefully grow old, will they? It will always be trouble after trouble. Battle after battle. Lawsuit after lawsuit. 

His blood pressure is going to kill him.

Atisha settles a hand on his knee. Soft magic flows through him easing the headache. 

"Isn't that lovely? Nehris is feeling better." Atisha points out.

Well, yes, he is glad for that. 

"That's wonderful news. Most people take up a new hobby when they recover from grievous wounds. You know, baking, knitting, photography." Cullen swallows. "They don't go around trying to start wars." He finishes dryly. 

Atisha grins.

"Oh, I don't know. I think we could use a little excitement. Besides, I already told Bull I'd go."

Cullen chokes.

"Absolutely not." He says just as Cassandra says,

"Are you insane?"

Atisha sips her own mug, apple chai.

"Well, healers are always in short supply." She points out.

"Healers! Not foreign royalty. Maker, your father is going to kill me this time. I know it." Cullen laments. His mug clicks as he sets it on the table. "Father won't mind, I'm sure." Atisha says.

Of course she would say that.

She's not the one he'd hunt down.

Cullen needs a drink. Or twelve.


	36. Chapter 36

There is blood in the water. Blood under her nails. Blood smeared on the mirror and on the drying cloth and Atisha feels so very ill. She does not have to be sick. She has to clean up all this blood.

It is not her blood.

No matter how she scrubs she cannot seem to wash it away. The blood. The look in his eyes. The way he had grit his teeth in pain. The force it took to twist the knife.

Creators, what has she done?

Any moment now the Inquisition guards will set upon her. She doesn't have time for this. She needs to run. She needs to flee. She needs to go home.

Will Father let her come back? She has spent so long among these shemlen and their ways. Perhaps he wouldn't allow her back. Perhaps he has heard of her treason. But it doesn't matter, she has to try.

Atisha makes one final attempt to wipe the blood from her hands and turns to leave.

She hadn't heard him enter. Hadn't hears his bootfalls or ragged breathing. But unmistakably, slumped against the wall, is Cullen. He has his hand pressed to that spot. That little spot where his armor slots against itself. That spot a blade can fit right into. That little perfect spot.

He reeks of blood.

And his eyes are hurt. Angry. Rightfully so, considering the circumstances.

"Are you leaving?" He asks. His eyes are zeroed in on her pack by the door. Hurt laces his voice.

Atisha can't help but feel he has greater concerns right now. Like the blood dripping from between his fingers. And the stab wound. 

"Am I free to?" Atisha asks. Because she knows that she did something wrong to him. Because she hurt him. Because she cannot be expected to stay here with him here.

Cullen presses his hand tighter to his side to staunch the flow.

"I should say no." He tells her. He grimaces and adjusts his stance. Atisha feels that in her chest. The betrayal. The hurt. It is almost accusing the way he looks at her, and rightfully so. Then, something softer. Cullen leans heavily on the wall, doesn't look away from her. "An answer is all I ask."

An answer?

Didn't she just provide one? Wasn't that painful enough? Atisha is not sure what to tell him. Maybe she wasn't clear enough? Maybe the knife wasn't sharp enough? Maybe her answer wasn't painful enough? He is such a strong man, after all.

When she doesn't reply, Cullen dares to take a step.

"Atisha, help me understand this." He says.

She can't help but watch his blood drop to the floor. Raindrops of him. A deep cut. Deep enough to cut their tie, right? Just like Suledin. Her hands tremble. Suledin's blood is under her nails still, too.

Then she understands.

He wants a why. 

"I've grown careless and too familiar with you, Cullen. It isn't right. I should have never let it go this far. It's not fair to you." What she doesn't say, he will never grow old with her. He will never be welcome in her home. He will never be her people. And even if she had him, even if she chose him, their children wouldn't belong to either world. Not really. More importantly,

Chosing him means forsaking her role as First.

He blinks.

"You could have just said no." He points out. Now Atisha is confused.

"I did." She says, gestures to the weeping wound.

Cullen starts, regrets it as pain shoots through him.

"The stabbing was your way of saying 'no, I won't marry you'?" He demands incredulously. 

Atisha is baffled. Do shemlen not sever ties? Perhaps it is dangerous for them, being so far and between healers so often. The confusion on her face must show because Cullen is stunned.

"Maker, it's a wonder your men even attempt to ask such things for fear of losing their lives. Atisha, no is a perfectly acceptable answer. I would have accepted that. You didn't need to stab me. Not that it's the first time I've been on that end of a blade, but it isn't something I enjoy. Especially from loved ones." He points out.

Atisha doesn't know what to do with that.

When she denied Suledin's proposals he hasn't even flinched. Three times. Three times she responded with a blade. Three times he asked, and would again were she home. But to just say no? It never crossed her mind that humans would just say no.

She just did what her people do.

And he is bleeding. And not a mage.

Creators, Atisha is excellent at not thinking straight.

"Why did you ask?" She manages. Atisha crosses the room to tend to the wound. He isn't her people. She can't treat him like he is. Atisha watches him flinch as she reaches out to heal him. Their eyes lock. Cullen's eyes glimmer with promise of threat under the hurt. Try it again, they say. 

"You can't be serious." Cullen tells her. Bitterness laces his voice. She wreathes her hand in magic and begins putting him right. She owes him that much. "I am, by all means, royalty of a reclusive nation, an unharrowed mage, an elf, and a heathen. You'll have to forgive me if I don't understand what possessed you to ask me such a thing." Atisha snaps back.

Cullen groans in annoyance.

"Are we making lists of our differences again?" He asks. "Because last I checked, I found that irrelevant."

"Then, you're a fool." She replies. 

"Affections are a witless thing." He tells her. If the fact that she stabbed him and he came back is any indicator, he is more than a fool.

"Affection is good and well, Cullen, but it doesn't make you an elf. Nor does it take away my magic."

"Your magic is not a problem. You are not a problem." He insists.

Atisha sighs. They've had this conversation before. Again and again. Without the proposal of course, but she thought he understood.

"There is not a future to be had with me, Cullen. I need you to accept that. I do care for you. You know that. But I have a duty, and it has to come first."

Cullen scoffs. He's heard this all before. Her duty. Her people. 

"They'd make you an abomination. Take your life from you and your free will. You'd be no more than a decorated slave. And you'd still go back?"

He has never understood the honor of taking the spirit that is Elgar'nan. He has never understood how she has fought for this right. What she has given.

"It is what I was born for. It is all I have wanted."

"I thought you wanted me." He shoots back. There is such a harshness that it twists Atisha's insides.

She did want him. Does want him. His sunshine laughter and smile and the sharpness of his stance and every callused finger. Every inch of scar tissue. Every terrible action. Every evil history. Every good repentance.

But she wants her people prosperous more.

"What would you have me do, Cullen? Abandon my people? Condemn my country? All for what? For me to run off and live a wonderful dream life with you for maybe fifty years? That is nothing to someone with my blood. You will wither and rot before me and I will not. I will bury you and have nothing left. I will be chased from my home, banished for treason, condemned to a lifetime of missing the man I love."

Atisha finished fixing his wound and very sadly tells him.

"At least this way I still have my people when I lose you."


	37. Chapter 37

"Hey is that Farmer Rutherford?"

"The gentleman that was given those elvhen lands to farm? Yeah that's him."

"Why's he over there, though? I thought the gentlemen were supposed to stand by the oak tree."

"Maybe he just isn't interested?"

"What a shame. He is so handsome."

"And mysterious."

Cullen likes to pretend he can drink the gossip away. He wishes, for more than once, that Atisha would come to these Maker-damned events with him. But she always just laughs at him and buttons up his nicest shirt and sends him out the door. 

At least the cider was spiked appropriately.

His mug is hot and heavy with liquor and it always makes this horrendous event go faster.

A tiny hand tugs at his trousers. Cullen glances down to his son. "What is it?" Mika is pink cheeked and points out a young girl swathed in layers of fluffy purple. "Do you think she would want to dance with me, Papa?"

Cullen has half a mind to tell the lad not to bother. Has half a mind to keep his young, mage son away from the lass. 

Knows Mika always stands on the side.

"Go on, ask her."

Atisha will have his head if Mika doesn't get a dance again. So Cullen encourages their boy to branch out. In the midst of Mika bounding over to ask, Cullen finds himself set upon by one of the local ladies.

"Hanging out on the side again, Rutherford?"

Nice girl. Leesa, or Lyndsah, something like that. Cullen doesn't take his eyes from his boy when he replies. "Is there somewhere else I should be?" 

Leesa, Lyndsah, whatever her name is, titters.

"Why not join the other gentlemen? Maybe dance a little."

Cullen blinks at her. Takes a large gulp of his cider.

"The other gentlemen? You mean the bachelors?"

She giggles. The picture of southern beauty, gloved hand politely covering her mouth.

"Of course! You are the most sought after bachelor in town, after all."

Mika has successfully got the girl to stumble around in awkward circles with him. For his son's sake, Cullen manages to not throw his mug at this woman and storm off. Instead, he says,

"I'm sure my wife will be elated to hear that." And shocks himself at how cold his voice is.

The woman freezes.

"Your wife?" She repeats dumbly.

Cullen gestures to his wedding ring.

"Yes, my wife." He confirms. The woman quickly recovers.

"Oh my, I apologize, I thought you were ready to move on. I shouldn't have brought it up."

Cullen has had a bit to drink, but he isn't a dumb man.

"You think my wife is dead or gone?" He asks for confirmation. The woman gulps. Cullen rolls his eyes. Were it not for Mika, he would have left by now. "You women are vultures." He snarls, then stalks towards the cider table.

Atisha will laugh when he tells her, he's sure.

Cullen wishes she would come to these damn events with him.


	38. Chapter 38

"Mika was just telling me he got to dance with Jasslyn."

Atisha says as way of good morning when Cullen finally makes it to the kitchen. He must have overdid it on the cider, because his mouth is cotton dry and the lights are yelling at him. But something smells delicious, and even squinting he can see Atisha has broken out the rose-raspberry jam and the table is set for a king.

"Cute girl, she didn't even hesitate to tell him yes." Cullen replies. His voice croaks in disuse. Atisha hums, crosses the room and deposits a mug of coffee in his hands. Sweetened with fresh cream and a little honey knowing his wife.

Mika. Where is Mika? Cullen does a quick scan of the kitchen and notices the table is set for two. One set of dishes is in the sink already. The boy must be off doing his morning chores. Or at class. Atisha insisted they put him in classes even after his magic came in. Cullen still worries.

If Atisha sees his worry, she pays it no mind. Instead, she saunters over to the table and lifts the silver lid to her enchated serving tray. The kitchen is flooded with the smell of maple and sausage, egg and butter, stir fried carrots and cauliflower. Cullen feels his stomach grip tight. He sets his coffee by his plate, and crosses over to where Atisha is pouring herself a fresh tea.

"Allow me." Cullen says as he takes the pot from Atisha's lithe fingers and finishes pouring her drink. She leans back against the counter and smiles at him. 

"I know I told you to drink enough for both of us, but maybe not enough to kill both of us next time, vhenan." Atisha teases when he hands her the cup. Cullen rolls his eyes and regrets it. "Believe me, if you had spoke to those women you'd have drank too. That or killed them."

Atisha's eyes sparkle.

Oh no. What has he done.

"Those women? And what did the ladies of town have to say to you?"

Now he's done it. Best to get it over with. Rip off the bandage.

"It would seem the whole town was under the impression that I am a gentleman bachelor, and the ladies were quite upset at how elusive I've been."

Atisha's chiming laugh splits his head. Cullen flinches only a little before her fingers are cupping the side of his head filling him with soothing magic. Her fingers are cool and the waves of magic do help.

"Surely, they know children don't just appear and you have a son." She points out.

"Yes, they apparently think my wife is dead."

"Oh? Whatever did I die of?"

Cullen groans. She's having fun with this. Of course she is. Atisha isn't the one being pounced on. She doesn't go into town. Not to sell jams or teas or crops, not for events, not to buy necessities. She's at no risk of being dubbed a bacherlorette.

He grabs her wrist, kisses her palm and leads her over to the table. "I wasn't particularly keen on the conversation and may have walked away." He says as he pushes her and her chair in. "And drank." She points out. "A lot." Cullen agrees.

Cullen sits down himself and starts spearing suasages for his plate when Atisha says,

"Maybe I should go into town with you and introduce myself."

Cullen feels his jaw drop.

They've talked about this. He has asked for a year now. And each time she said no. Each time she pointed out she is an elf and a mage and the people would not take kindly to that. They're quiet folk. Small town folk. Magic and elves just aren't welcome in towns like these.

"Are you sure?" He asks. What he means is, 'is that safe?' Atisha shrugs. "I would have one of the best military commanders in all of Thedas by my side, as well as a most talented Templar. I don't see the Lion of Fereldan allowing anyone to comment on my ears or drag me off to market."

Cullen hates when she reminds him of the blood on his hands. But this time, it's a good reason. Then, Atisha says the unspoken.

"If I go with you, they'll know Mika is elf-blooded."

And that is the predicament. Would Mika be welcome in their school if it came out that he was Elvhen? Or that he had magic? Cullen worries frequently about his son's magic. That is visible. But it isn't as though Mika has pointed ears or is lithe and thin. He looks like his father, save the strawberry hue of his curls. He looks human.

"Mika knows he's Elvhen. He's never been ashamed of it. Maybe it's time." Cullen says slowly.

"He will struggle."

"We've known that since we first knew we were having him, love."

Atisha sips at her tea thoughtfully.

"And you? You want them to know that you've married an elf? The Lion of Fereldan and an elf."

"Not that your blood is of any consequence. Honestly, you married down. Whether or not they believe does not matter."

"So, when is your next shipment?"

Cullen hums.

"I believe the general store is expecting that cheese you've been making next week."


	39. Chapter 39

"Knight-Captain! Varric said you were with the Imquisition. You look well."

Cullen would recognize her voice anywhere. He can feel the beginning of a pulsing headache right behind his eyes. Maker, of course this woman would come here now. After they have lost so much. After all the death and destruction. Cullen offers a silent prayer for patience and turns to face her.

"Hawke." He says by greeting. Maybe his voice has a bit more gravel than he was hoping, but Cullen can't help but feel a bit of anger with the woman.

Cassandra has a point. Hawke could have helped. Hawke could have done something. A mage of that skill? Of that influence? Cullen has been fighting this woman's war.

Marian, for her part, grins.

"Is that any way to greet an old friend?" She asks with a mirthful lilt to her voice.

"Is that what we are?" Cullen replies.

Hawke slams her hand to her heart in feigned hurt. 

"And after all we've been through." She pouts. Cullen rolls his eyes. He doesn't have time to play games with this woman. "What do you want, Hawke?" Cullen snaps. 

He knows logically he should be kinder. Josephine would scold him and tell him to be a bit more welcoming, diplomatic. She would remind him that he is the face of the Inquisition's military.

Cullen does not care.

Marian's countenance changes. She sombers, lips pulling flat. "Varric asked me to come. I understand you're the man with the plans, so I'm here to take a peek." Cullen can feel his annoyance building. And his headache. Maybe those are linked.

Of course Varric would send her his way. He is the Commander. And Hawke has a point. Cullen had been briefed by Nehris that a person of influence would be arriving. The Inquisitor had informed him he is to assist as he can.

With a sigh, Cullen asks, "What is it you need to see?" Marian raises a brow at how compliant he is being. Not at all like the man she remembers. "Anything on Crestwood for now. There's someone I need to take the Inquisitor to meet."

Crestwood. Of course. Why wouldn't it be Crestwood.

"You told Varric it was there?"

Hawke worries her lip.

"Not exactly."

Cullen nods. His headache is getting worse. He presses a hand to his temple and tries to will it away.

"I'm afraid I don't have men in Crestwood currently. You'll need to talk to our Dalish Ambassador. She's in charge of that front."

"Dalish Ambassador?" Hawke repeats.

"Atisha Sabrae, First of the Dales. We have an agreement." Cullen replies.

Atisha is going to kill him if he sends a random woman to her quarters for military information. Cullen knows this. He sucks in a breath and thinks. Marian for her part looks mildly confused. Cullen takes a moment to enjoy that before he comes to a decision.

"I'll bring her to meet you after evening mess in the War Room."

Marian nods.

"And she can get me into Crestwood?"

Cullen feels his chest swell with pride as he replies, "She's the only one who can."


	40. Chapter 40

Cullen sent word. A letter in his hand, with his seal. Too busy to walk down and see her, Atisha supposes. But if he needs her to meet him and a military asset this evening, she supposes she can make the time.

For anyone else she would have sent back times she was actually available.

For anyone else, Atisha would say no.

But for Cullen, she puts aside her evening plans to ground her magic and reinforce the seals. It will last a day. It can wait. 

She gathers her papers on Crestwood, and takes her meal at the War Table. 

Who could be so important as be unnamed? Who could be so important that Cullen sends her an official letter instead of telling her in person? It isn't like the Commander. Does Nehris know?

The whole thing is so unlike Cullen.

Then again, who is she to say what is like him. They share evening meals together. Sometimes, Atisha takes him tea for his withdrawals. Occasionally, Cullen teaches her a bit of chess. It isn't as if they are particularly close. It isn't as if she doesn't keep that halla carving at her bedside to watch over her. That would be childish. Foolish.

Not that Atisha would be opposed to a friendship with him. Not that she knows his handwriting and knows that letter was written hastily and has been worried all day since.

How girl like. Here she is, fretting over Cullen like they're close. Like they're friends. Like the sun didn't rise, and all over a letter.

They're business associates, nothing more. She is an Ambassador. Dalish. A military asset. Not a friend. It needs to stay that way. Atisha is here to do a job, not to befriend, or Creators forbid, pine over a shemlen.

But when Cullen walks in with a drawn look the thought of keeping herself professional melts away.

She didn't take him his evening tea. 

Atisha crosses the room in five quick strides. Her magic spools in her, fingertips glowing a soft green. Cullen doesn't step away, but the look he gives her is sharp. 

"I'm fine." Cullen is short when he says it. Which tells her he is, in fact, not fine. "You look terrible." Atisha replies. She reaches out to cup the side of his cheek, to soothe his headache, and Cullen wraps his hand around her wrist. "I don't need it." He says, a little softer this time. Atisha looks at him for a moment. Searching. Is he fine? He is clearly in pain. But he clearly doesn't want her help. Atisha pulls her magic back. Once it is gone, Cullen releases her wrist and clears his throat. "I appreciate the gesture, really." He insists when Atisha doesn't stop staring. 

He's always like this. Aloof. Distant. The times that he allows her to help are few and far between, but Atisha's chest tightens all the same knowing he is hurting. Knowing he is struggling. Knowing she can help him if he would just let her.

Atisha needs to focus. They're here for a reason and it isn't for her to fuss over him. He's a grown man. Cullen can take care of himself. She needs to be better than this. But she can't will her skin to stop tingling where he grabbed her wrist. Atisha can't will the beating behind her ribs to slow. Creators, if Father knew, he would never have sent her.

Cullen clears his throat.

Right. Focus.

"The asset will be here any minute now. Do you have a current map of Crestwood?" Cullen asks.

Atisha nods.

"Yes. Do you want to tell me what's going on?" 

Cullen looks exceedingly annoyed as he says, "I'm not sure I really know what's going on, Atisha."

And even if his tone is grating, he has said her name and Atisha feels her veins flutter. She wants him to say it again. Even though he slaughters her name with the flatness of his Fereldan accent. Even though he doesn't speak it with the meaning. Atisha just wants to hear it again. She strains her ears thinking maybe she can hear the echo of her name on his breath.

Just then, her ears pick up bootfalls.

"I suppose we are about to find out." She tells him as she steps away. Rumors fly so easily here. No need to cause Cullen problems by being seen standing too close. 

Whatever would they say. The Andrastian Ex-Templar Commander of the Inquisition standing close to a Heathen Ambassador? An elf? A mage? 

Just as Atisha steps back to the War Table to dig up the maps she needs, a woman walks in.

The first thing Atisha notices is that the woman is exceedingly beautiful. Tall and built with broad shoulders and broad hips. Dark hair. Shaggy cut, messy, falling haphazardly into her sky blue eyes. She stands like she knows she commands power. The woman stands like the room belongs to her. Atisha feels oddly drawn to her, then realizes it's magic. This woman has layered the room in magic and Atisha hadn't even noticed.

"Are you the Ambassador?" The woman asks, she looks over at Cullen, "Is this her?" 

The second thing Atisha notices, Cullen's entire countenance has darkened. He crosses his arms across his chest. Of course Cullen would notice that magic. Templar instincts.

Cullen groans in annoyance.

"Atisha, meet Hawke." He says flatly.

Hawke? The Hawke? No wonder the name is being kept quiet. Atisha can just picture the mayhem if the world knew Hawke was here. Creators, what has Cullen gotten her into?

The woman, Hawke, grins a wide grin.

"I've been told you're the woman to see about gaining access to Crestwood." Hawke says.

Atisha blinks.

Cullen looks like his head is going to pop. At least now Atisha can say the headache is no fault of the lyrium.

"How large of a party are you getting in and what kind of trouble are you expecting?" Atisha asks. She will have words with Cullen later. Words about how he needs to give her better prep. He needs to let her know what he wants from her. Atisha was completely unprepared for this.

"I'll be going with the Inquisitor and a small party. I'm hoping to keep it quiet enough that we won't need an escort, just a clear path and decent supplies."

And that. That Atisha can do. She gestures Hawke over to the table and begins going over the map.

"These are the regions my people control," Atisha gestures to a few loose areas. Hawke nods. "But Crestwood is a mess. Undead swarm the land and keep my men from fully controlling it. Nehris is aware and has it on a list to work on. Your best bet would be to hug these areas." She points to roadways connecting lands controlled by the elves. 

"And the red templar sightings?" Hawke inquires. Atisha blinks. Hawke has done her homework. They've been keeping the red templar presence quiet. "They're holed up here, here, and here. Stay on those paths and you'll be fine. As for supplies, I'll send word to have dead drops placed at these four locations. You'll be in good hands."

"Hands I won't see I assume." Hawke comments.

"Hands you won't see." Atisha confirms. "Just take care of Nehris out there. Like I said, Crestwood is dangerously unstable."


End file.
